


Father Figure

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Canon-Typical Violence, Foster Care, Kid Fic, Loss of Parent(s), Other, Parenthood, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:12:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3582414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You want me to foster an orphaned were, who fear-shifted at a dangerously young age, and is non-reactive to shift-inhibitors?<br/> I can't do that, Mike."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I once found a prompt, probably on the meme, asking for Greg as a child with Sherlock and John as caregivers. At the time, it seemed none such existed. I got to wondering how many of these little AU ideas and fic categories I could fit into a single tale. Werewolves? Kid-fic? Foster care provider? Parentlock? Case-fic? 
> 
> This is the result.
> 
> Further Author's Note: This story would never have come into being without the amazing Longhornletters. She was instrumental in my hashing out the original plot arc, the second plot arc, and the story you find here. Also, Mr Kestrel was an amazing cheerleader. This has been a long time in the writing, and is COMPLETE. Aiming to post weekly, as I tinker and make final revision passes. 
> 
> This is a work of fanfiction. I don't make any money from this, and I mean absolutely no disrespect to the creative people behind any iteration of Sherlock Holmes.

The office was institutional beige, the desk almost large enough to hold in-box, telephone, pencil cup, and the ubiquitous family portrait. Double tall filing cabinets shouldered tightly together to make room for the brochure rack with its glossy pamphlets emblazoned with hopeful children and the words “Are You The One They’re Waiting For?”. Although he wasn’t a tall man, John’s knees nearly brushed the front of the desk as he jogged them up and down, waiting for the case worker. Waiting for an answer. Was he the one?

The swinging door nearly knocked John’s jacket from the back of the chair. He stood and turned to shake hands with the heavy-set man whose eyes were crinkled behind heavy framed glasses.

“Well. Dr Watson.” He stopped, shook his head and pulled John into an awkward embrace.“Congratulations, John. I knew you’d be a good candidate.”

 

“Thanks, Mike. I take it I’m approved, then?” John broke away from the hug and resumed his seat. “I know Ms Thomas expressed some concern about my ‘documented medical condition.’ Inability to shift,” John clarified, in response to Mike’s quizzical look.

Mike stilled, straightened from his half-seated position. “ _Temporary. Temporary_ inability. My God, that level of nerve damage takes time to heal, even in a were.”

John gave him a tight nod.“Temporary, as you say. I reminded them of that. And I assured them that I would remain diligent about attending medical appointments and going to therapy.” His shoulder rolled, habitually, experimentally. “Another year, 18 months, I should be able to shift again. I suspect that was the deciding factor. Anyway, now that I’m an approved foster provider, what happens?” 

“I’ll call you when there’s a placement. It probably won’t be long. There’s always a shortage of carers, even for human children. For weres, it’s worse. Even taking single adults as providers hasn’t really eased things up.” 

John nodded. “I’m ready anytime, really. A few things to do around the house, but nothing that kept me from passing inspection.” He glanced at his watch; nearly the end of Mike's office hours. “I thought I’d go for coffee if there’s some place nearby; care to join me?” 

Mike grinned. “Absolutely. The Criterion’s closest. Have you tried their scones?” 

 

~*~  
In the three weeks he spent waiting for the call, John repainted the second bedroom, bought spare bed linens, attended three physical therapy sessions and a seminar for foster parents, and consulted with colleagues on one traumatic injury case. He was looking at the back garden, wondering if he could keep container plants alive, when the call came, requesting a meeting at Mike’s office the next afternoon. 

He’d never minded taking the tube, setting himself challenges such as trying to count the number of passengers wearing concert tee-shirts or how many people had red hair. Today he watched the parents, noticing how they took childrens’ hands, the way they guided them in boarding the train or finding a place to sit. A harassed looking mother wiped her toddler’s nose and he made a mental note to start keeping tissues in his pocket. Unless he was matched with an older child; in that case he’d just need to issue reminders, probably. A number of the youngsters were wearing tee-shirts for animated programs that John had never heard of. Should he have spent some time learning about these? No, probably not. Best wait and find out what his charge preferred to watch. A man dropped a shopping bag, spilling out small shirts and jeans. With a jolt, John realized that he had no idea where to shop for clothing, or if he’d need to right away. Surely the child would have some things, right? 

He winced when his hand started to cramp up, forced himself to halt the reflexive clenching of his fists.“Calm down, Watson. It’s not like they’re going to send someone home with you today.” Nobody noticed him muttering to himself, but he was still grateful to exit the train at the next stop. He spent the short walk to Mike’s office trying to relax while making mental notes about all the critical knowledge he’d not even known he didn’t know. 

Mike greeted him, taking in his somewhat breathless and wide-eyed appearance with an understanding grin. “Realizing just what you’ve agreed to take on, aren’t you? Not getting cold feet, I hope.”

“No. But there’s a lot I didn’t even think about. Clothes, ground rules, snotty noses. Should I have clothes for them? What if they don’t like what I know how to cook?” 

“He’ll be given some clothes, basic and essential. He’ll learn to like your cooking, or you’ll learn to cook new things. You’re going to be great at this, John. You really will. Now, do you want to hear about him?”

John sank into the chair opposite his old friend, took a few deep breaths, and then nodded. “Sorry. Um. Yeah, let’s have a look.”

Mike flipped open a file. “Just turned four, parents died a couple weeks ago.” Mike turned a few pages and offered John a stack of photographs. The first was a studio shot, mischievous eyes giving the lie to carefully combed brown hair and a crisply pressed dress shirt. John flipped to the next one, a candid shot of the same boy scrabbling up a climbing net, as Mike continued his explanation. “Family life seems like it was pretty stable, if a bit strict and old-fashioned, but dad lost his job in March and things started to get rough. Behind on the rent, bills starting to stack up, the usual sort of thing. I think the going theory is murder-suicide, but there was also a house fire. The child wasn’t found until the next day, hiding in the neighbor’s garage. He’d fear shifted.” Mike cleared his throat, offered John another picture. It showed a soot-covered wolf-pup, all eyes and teeth, cradled in an anonymous set of arms. 

“My god, he must’ve been utterly terrified. Obviously he survived changing back; you said he’s four?”

Mike looked a bit uncomfortable. “Well, yes. And that’s not the oddest bit. He’s form-stable, and using it as a coping skill.”

“Why the hell isn’t he on suppressants ?”

“Oh, believe me, we’ve tried.”

“Resistant?”

“No positive effect, no adverse reaction. Just, nothing.”

John could only stare at his old friend. “You want me to foster an orphaned were, who fear-shifted at a dangerously young age, and is non-reactive to shift-inhibitors? He’ll need instruction, need to be around other weres in shift form. I can’t do that, Mike.” 

“Well, no, I realize. He’s getting instruction from his therapist. And there’s someone who’s working with him right now, and is willing to continue. It’s unusual, we prefer to let the foster family make their own arrangements, but he’s a traumatized early shifter...bit of a special case. The person in question is the man who found him, and there’s trust already established.”

 

John looked again at the pictures in his hand; the smiling child, the snarling pup. A lost child, alone, in need of so much more than just a foster home. 

“Alright, fine. When can I meet him?”

Mike grinned in triumph, then looked at his watch. “Um, tomorrow morning, say, ten o’clock? He’s staying with an emergency caregiver. Martha Hudson. Wonderful lady, and she’s a deft hand with the more challenging situations.” Mike handed over the slim folder. “Here’s his file; you can call me if you have any questions.”

John opened the folder to replace the photographs, read the name on the top sheet. “Gregory Lestrade. And I’m meeting him where?”

Mike scribbled the address on a scrap pad and handed it across the desk. “Baker Street. 221, Baker Street.” 

~*~

221 Baker Street proved to be a townhome that had been broken up into flats. Mike was already there when John arrived, deep in conversation with a dark haired man wearing a well-tailored suit. Mike began the introductions, giving John’s name and saying that he was here to meet Greg. 

The other man absently accepted John’s handshake, giving him a penetrating stare. John was taken aback when, instead of offering his own name, the other man said, “Mike didn’t say you’d been overseas.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I know you have a medical background and are versed in the care of traumatized weres. That’s an unusual specialization, even within the medical corps. It’s doubtful you’d be risked in a combat zone. Yet you’ve the remnants of a deep tan on your hands and face.” He paused, arched an eyebrow in a manner so reminiscent of John’s former anatomy professor that John automatically nodded to show that he was paying attention. “Could have served in a hospital on one of the bases, but no tan above your wrists, so long sleeves, so not acquired recreationally. You spent long hours outdoors, in harsh sunlight. Military, trauma doctor, suntan. So. Afghanistan, or Iraq?” Mapped out like that, the question made perfect sense.

“Afghanistan. And you are?” 

Mike stepped in then. “Sorry, sorry. John, this is Sherlock Holmes. He’s got the flat upstairs, rents it from Mrs Hudson. Also the one who rescued Greg.” 

The other man snorted. “Don’t be so dramatic. Dimmock called me to find a missing child; I merely selected the most likely hiding place for a frightened boy that wouldn’t have been searched in the first few sweeps.” 

Sherlock unlocked the glossy black door and gestured for the others to precede him into the vestibule. The second door opened into a comfortable entryway, stairs going up to the left of a hallway that led further into the building. The door on his right burst open, and a small boy raced out, throwing his arms and legs around Sherlock. The gray-haired woman hurrying after him was holding out her hands to squeeze Sherlock’s even as she scolded her charge. “Greg, dear! Let him get in the door…oh, well, alright then.”

Sherlock hauled the boy up, perched him comfortably on his hip. “That was well done, Greg. I barely noticed you make the grab. How did you decide which pocket?”

The boy pointed at Sherlock’s right hand. “I knew what pocket your keys were in because you had them in that hand. And you wouldn’t keep this in the same pocket. They aren’t big enough!” He held up a ferociously snarling tyrannosaur, brown eyes sparkling with joy at having won the game.

Sherlock bent to set Greg back on his own feet. “Well done! You may keep that.”

“Sherlock. Teaching him such things!” Presumably this was Martha Hudson. John noted that her scold sounded more fond than aggrieved.

Sherlock didn’t respond, just threw a ‘good afternoon’ over his shoulder as he retreated up the stairs.

Mike grinned at the tall man’s retreating back, then answered John’s unspoken question. “Yeah. He’s always like that.” He shook his head, then began another round of introductions. “Mrs Hudson, John Watson. And this is Gregory Lestrade.” Now that Sherlock had left, the boy had registered the other adults and hidden behind Mrs Hudson’s legs.

John crouched down and said seriously, “Hello, Gregory.”

The boy lifted wide eyes to John’s face, then buried his face against the purple skirt. 

“He prefers Greg, generally,” Mrs Hudson informed John.

“Alright. I’ll remember that. Would your dinosaur like a friend?” John held out another t-rex, this one in a more staid posture.

Greg peeked, assessed, and cautiously accepted the toy before fleeing into the downstairs flat. The rest of them followed, Mrs Hudson offering tea and biscuits before ushering them into a homey sitting room. Greg was sitting on the floor, walking his dinosaurs over a colorful plastic narrowboat. Mike, in his role as observer, attempted to take a seat out of Greg’s direct line of sight, but the boy shifted his body in such a way that he could watch both men and continue his play. John carefully settled himself on the furthest corner of the floral sofa. “I don’t know if you know this,” he spoke to Mike “but I liked dinosaurs a lot when I was a kid. My favorite was the triceratops.”

Mike looked a bit startled, then smiled as he caught John’s ploy. “I didn’t know that, no. Which one is triceratops? The one that looks like a sailfish?”

Greg seemed absorbed with his new toys but when Mike spoke, he shook his head in disgust.

John bit back a laugh, and explained. “No, you’re thinking of dimetrodon. Triceratops is the one with the horns on it’s face.” He held three fingers up to his own forehead. “They have one at the Natural History Museum. My family came to London the summer I turned six, spent a day there. Harry wanted to see Madame Tussauds, threw a horrible tantrum over it right there in the gallery. Best day of my life, really. I got to see the triceratops, stayed at a hotel, had a special birthday tea, and Harry got a lovely telling off.” 

Mike laughed, and asked, “With a swat?”

John shook his head. “I’d hoped so, but no. Just a lecture; she hated those.” 

“Harry is a boy name.” The words were spoken softly, directed at the toys on the floor, and John wasn’t sure how best to answer. He didn’t want to scare Greg with a correction.

Fortunately, Mrs Hudson had come in while he was speaking, and answered Greg’s statement. “Sometimes. And sometimes it’s short for Harriet. Is that right, Dr Watson?”

“John, please, Mrs Hudson. And yes, my sister’s name was Harriet, but she prefered to be called Harry.”

Mrs Hudson settled the tray, and began handing round cups. “Just like Gregory would rather be called Greg. Go wash your hands now, dear.” Once he’d left the room, she added, “He’s a good lad. Doesn’t half go through the biscuits though! Between him and Sherlock, I can’t bake fast enough. Before you ask, Mike, their practice sessions are going quite well. He’s able to shift back fairly smoothly now.” She added some custard creams to a little plate of apple slices. 

“He still prefers Sherlock to other adults, then?”

“Oh, well, it’s understandable. Like pack-brothers, those two. It’s good for both of them. A little bit of hero worship is just the thing for Sherlock, and Greg needs a role model who can still shift.” At John’s surprised look she explained blithely, “I’m living under a dark moon.”

Mike caught John’s flinch before he could school his features, and mouthed ‘later’ in answer to John’s querying look. 

“Oh, Mike, really. It’s no secret.” She patted his shoulder comfortingly, and turned to John. “My husband wasn’t particularly nice. Sherlock helped the police out, since I couldn’t give evidence even if I hadn’t been in hospital. The damage turned out to be permanent, but so did the lethal injection.” 

John was spared having to comment when Greg came back into the room and sat down by the coffee table. His smile was pure charm when he said, “Thank you for the tea, Mrs Hudson.” He made short work of the biscuits and looked somewhat dubiously at the apple slices.

John slipped off the sofa to sit at the coffee table and picked up a smaller boat. There was a little otter that seemed to go with the set, and John settled it into the rowboat while he pondered how to keep drawing Greg out. “Maybe you’d like to go to the museum sometime, see the dinosaurs?” 

“Yeah. I guess.” He was poking the fruit on his plate around in circles.

John set a gingernut next to the apple slices. “Try putting an apple on top. The spices and apple are really good together.” 

Greg looked doubtful, but stacked the snacks as John had suggested, tasting them tentatively. His eyes opened wide as he swallowed, and he took another, larger bite and chewed more enthusiastically. “I still have apples. Please may I have another biscuit, Mrs Hudson?” 

“One more, and then all the apples.” 

He began layering fruit on the new treat, then fixed John with a very serious expression. “It’s good.” Greg finished his treat and busied himself with his boat, driving it under the coffee table. 

John alternated between conversing with the adults and talking to Greg, learning the the boy enjoyed football more than rugby and was utterly fascinated with narrowboats. As the adults gathered the used tea things, Greg told Mike in a penetrating whisper, “I like John.”

Mike whispered back, “I think he likes you, too,” before heading into the kitchen. 

“Well, that went very well indeed. Shall we schedule another visit?” Mike was grinning at everyone, very pleased with himself. 

They were discussing a future visit, this one perhaps with an outing to the park, when John caught sight of a small face peering around the doorframe. “What do you think, Greg? Should we go to the park next week? There’s one with a pirate ship.”

“No, thank you,” Greg answered hesitantly, looking to Mrs Hudson for her reaction. When she nodded encouragingly he shook his head, then came haltingly into the room to pull on her hand. She leaned over and he confessed “I can’t remember the words.” He looked at her imploringly. “You do it, please? So John will come back? I want him to come back.”

Mrs Hudson nodded and explained, “Crowds aren’t very comfortable just now. But if you’d like to just go for a walk…”

No wonder, really. Crowds were difficult enough for an average youngster. One who was struggling with uncertain shift control and recent trauma would be much more easily overwhelmed. “A walk would be fine. Maybe some ice cream?”

“Can Sherlock come too?” 

“If he’d like, yes.” 

The details were set, and Mrs Hudson saw Mike and John out. On the pavement, Mike said, “That’s the most talking he’s done for anyone aside from Mrs Hudson or Sherlock. Even his therapist has a hard time getting more than a few words, for all that he’s been so successful with the shift integration. I’ve got a really good feeling about this, John. I think you’re going to be exactly what he needs.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No warnings in this chapter.

They’d decided to skip the larger play parks, hoping to avoid crowds, and instead chose one of the hidden gems that nestled amongst the busy London streets. Mrs Hudson’s suggestion of going earlier in the day was gladly accepted, although Mike was tied up in a meeting and said he’d send a colleague. A small woman, dark brown hair pulled into a long ponytail, was waiting at the entrance to the park. She stepped forward, head cocked questioningly to one side.

“John Watson? I’m Molly Hooper, I work with Mike. I’m here to observe your visit with Greg.” 

A lifetime ago, John would have offered coffee and a shared bench, would’ve said something silly to coax a smile. Might have left with a phone number in his back pocket, or a date already scheduled. Today, although the bench and coffee were the same, the conversation was anything but flirtatious. Molly’s brown eyes were serious, as she explained the main goal for today’s outing.

“We’re just trying to get a feel for how you and Greg go along together. Mike said he was comparatively open with you at the last visit. Hopefully you can build on that, get to know each other a bit more. Now, I know he’s not fond of crowds. Do you have a plan if the playground is too much?”

“Yeah, actually. Um. Mrs Hudson and I talked about it. We thought we’d just take him away from the playground, let him run a bit. See if there’s any ducks over at the pond maybe. I brought some bread, in case.” He held up a brown paper sack. 

“That’s perfect. And here he comes. He’s met me before, so we should be ready.” 

Greg and Mrs Hudson had stepped off the bus that was departing, Greg holding tightly to her hand and hanging back with a pout.

John crouched down to greet him. “Hey, kiddo. It’s good to see you again.” 

It was only when Mrs Hudson settled one hand on his brown hair that Greg answered. “Hi, John.” His eyes stayed fixed on the pavement. 

Mrs Hudson stepped in to explain. “Sherlock’s a detective, did he mention that? Greg was looking forward to him coming along today, but he’s off on a case. He did say he might come by later.” 

“That’s too bad.” John offered a hand to the scowling boy. “Was there something special you wanted to show him?” 

“I can swing really high without any pushes.” 

John was aware of Molly and Mrs Hudson following them at a discreet distance as they walked toward the swing set. “How about this? I’ll take a picture of you-” he held out his mobile “-and send it to Mrs Hudson so she can show him?” 

“Can you take a movie?”

“I can, yes. Do you need help getting the swing started?” 

“Nope. I can pump my legs and everything.” Greg climbed into the blue plastic sling and began rocking back and forth, setting the swing moving. Before long he was going fast and high, and John held up his phone to make the promised video. He’d caught several swoops, Greg leaning back and digging hard with his legs, and was about to stop the recording when Greg launched himself out of the seat to fly across several feet of playground and land with a scuffling thud on the safety surface.Then he was dashing over with a wide grin and breathlessly demanding, “Did you get it? Did you? Can I see?” 

John let him take the phone to Mrs Hudson, smiling warmly at him from her bench, while he waited for his heart rate to return to normal. By the time he was breathing more steadily, Greg had taken hold of his hand and was dragging him over to the climbing frame. He was a skilled climber, weaving in and out, keeping his distance from the other children who were beginning to drift into the playground. When an impromptu game of tag broke out, Greg climbed down with more haste than grace and hurried over to John. 

“I’m done playing now.” His voice was tight, and his eyes never left the girl who was tearing after her screaming companions. 

“I think there’s a pond along that path, there.” John pointed down a paved walking path with trees scattered along it’s length. “I wonder if there’s any ducks?” 

“Ducks won’t come unless you’ve got bread.” 

“Good thing I brought some, then.” He pointed to where he’d left the bag, next to Molly and Mrs Hudson. 

**

If John had pictured a leisurely stroll to the pond, Greg soon disabused him of that idea. Once away from the playground, he relaxed again and the journey was taken at speed. Greg forged ahead to climb the stunted trees, then ran back to urge the adults to hurry before the ducks all flew away. He listened though, when they finally arrived, staying near John and scattering the bread crumbs while the ducks gathered around their feet. 

“I used to love feeding the ducks when I was a little boy. We didn’t get to very often, though. Harry was always trying to catch one.” 

Greg said, condemningly, “I don’t like people who chase.”

Before John could decide how to answer that, Greg’s attention was caught by several fuzzy ducklings swimming along the edge of the pond. He held a finger up to his lips, and walked toward them with exaggerated care. Soon he was crouching down where the grass became damp mud. John had taken a few steps in his direction when he saw Sherlock, and paused to wave him over. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Greg suddenly flop onto his bottom and begin scrambling backwards, frantically shaking a muddy hand. John started running before he even saw the enormous black water-bug clinging to the boy’s wrist. Greg shrieked, high and long, curling into a fetal position, blurring and shifting. There was a tearing sound, the tee-shirt giving way as his shoulders realigned themselves, and fur burst out over his body. John was vaguely aware of Sherlock running toward him, even as he grabbed at the snarling wolf-pup who was savagely biting at his own paw. 

“Greg! Stop!” John grabbed hold of the waistband of the shorts now awkwardly pinning the fluffy tail between Greg’s back legs, and hauled the struggling were into his arms. “Stop that now. You’ll hurt yourself. Stop, Greg.” The pup thrashed, yelping in terror and scrabbling frantically against the air. John stumbled, struggling to hold on, and took them both to the ground. He landed on his good shoulder, rolling slightly but avoiding putting his entire weight on Greg, who continued to wail his distress. John positioned his mouth near one furry ear and spoke as soothingly as possible, “Greg. Greg, I’ve got you. The bug is gone. Calm down, now, kiddo, it’s alright.” Hating himself, even as he admitted the necessity of doing it, he used one hand to catch the scruff of the pup’s neck and give him two quick shakes. Thus chastised, Greg abruptly went limp, trembling and whimpering and regarding John with white-edged eyes. “Right, alright now. I’m going to let you up.” He relaxed his arms slowly, rolled back and away to get a good look at the pup who was trying to roll onto his back, hindered by the shorts still tangling his hind legs. In shift-form, Greg still had the fuzzy tawny undercoat of a very young wolf, silver-grey guard hairs just beginning to show. He whined, gave up on rolling and instead crouched low to the ground and lowered his muzzle in submission. John sighed in relief. He could hear alarmed voices from the vicinity of the path, heard Sherlock’s low voice speaking calmly, telling people that everything was fine, that it wasn’t Greg’s first shift, that John was Greg’s caregiver and had everything under control.

Right. John drew on the crisis management technique that had served him so well in the past: do what’s needed, and then worry about the next thing. Greg’s torn clothes were the first order of business. His focus was all on Greg’s body language, watching for any fear or aggression, and he telegraphed his intentions broadly. The shorts and pants were the easiest, slipping off the back legs with a quick pull. What remained of the tee-shirt was more problematic; the back had split, but sleeves and neckband were intact and stretched around Greg’s shoulders like a cape worn back-to-front. He leaned toward Greg’s neck, retreated when Greg’s lips pulled back in a warning snarl. “Hey, now, no need for that.” Before he could decide on the better course, Sherlock had approached silently from behind and shucked the tattered shirt over and off in one smooth movement. By the time the frightened pup turned to snap, he’d backed off again. 

“Thanks for that.” John nodded acknowledgement, and sank back onto his heels. He saw Molly, holding onto Mrs Hudson’s arm and watching intently, spared a momentary thought for how this would look in her report, then turned back to the pup who was slinking, belly low and tail flat on the ground, toward him. 

“Alright, kiddo. Come on.” Greg scrambled into the circle of John’s arms, whining and pushing as close to John’s chest as he could. John murmured low in his throat, more sounds than words, gave his paw a once over. 

“What set him off?” Sherlock crouched down next to them. 

“Water bug, right up on his hand. Big ugly thing. Seems more afraid than hurt, though, so I don’t think it bit him. Can they even? I don’t know; it’s never been a thing that mattered.” His entomological knowledge was limited to desert nasties, not English pond fauna.

“Boatmen, no; scorpions, yes.” Sherlock offered his hand to help John up. Mrs Hudson and Molly took this as a sign that the immediate crisis was past and hurried over. John explained, but it wasn’t lost on him that Greg remained huddled in his arms rather than trying to get to the more familiar adults. He forced himself to answer in calm, rather than terse and assertive, tones; Questions from concerned civilians wasn’t a debriefing. 

“We should probably get him home,” he finally offered, after he’d explained about the bug for the fourth or fifth time. Mrs Hudson nodded, but her face was creased with worry. 

“I don’t think the buses or cabs will take us, though. Not when he’s in shift.” 

“Molly?” John looked to the social worker. 

“I can take Mrs Hudson and Greg in my car.” When Mrs Hudson reached for him, though, Greg began to whine and hunkered down into John’s arms. 

“I don’t think that’s what Greg wants right now.” John spoke firmly; surely they could give a frightened child that much control over the situation?

Sherlock studied them for a moment, nodded briskly, and issued a rapid-fire set of instructions.“Mrs Hudson, give Molly your keys. Molly, you take John and Greg in your car. Mrs Hudson and I can take a cab.”

“And whoever gets there first will put the kettle on.” Mrs Hudson added. 

In the end, burdened with having to park, Molly and John arrived after the others. Greg was drowsing in John’s arms, and Mrs Hudson helped him tuck the boy into his bed. “He can change back if it’s a controlled one, but not out of a fear shift. He’ll nap for a bit, probably shift back without realizing. He’s always hungry after, and sad, but he never wants to talk about it. His therapist says that’s not unexpected, but it can’t be good for him.” 

“I suppose not.” John spoke diffidently. In his experience, silence wasn’t any less helpful than being forced into talking before you were ready, or to someone you didn’t really know. He followed Mrs Hudson into the sitting room, and accepted the tea she handed him.

Molly looked up from the notebook she’d been writing in, and glanced at all of them. “Okay, here’s what I’m putting in my report. Up until the shift, I thought things were going very well.” 

John nodded, wondering where she was headed with this. Did she think he should’ve kept Greg closer while they were feeding the ducks? Was there something he could’ve done differently, some way to prevent what had happened? Should he not have grabbed Greg, not held him until he calmed enough to listen? 

“But I think what happened when he shifted was, frankly, amazing.” 

Nobody but John seemed to notice how intently Sherlock was watching Molly, or how he relaxed when she voice her approval of John’s response. 

Molly was continuing. “A fear-shift in an open area like that could have gone so badly. He could have run off, hidden himself, or gotten hurt. John kept that from happening. And then, when he showed that he’d rather ride with John, you let him have that. A lot of people would have insisted that he go with the official guardian, not without reason, but you respected his choice.” She closed her notebook. “My official report will say that this visit was a success. So next is a day-visit to John’s house. When shall we schedule that?”

*~*

They arranged the trip to John’s home for the following week. John suggested he could get a zip-car, but Mike offered drive them. He would observe, and, if all went well, would schedule another outing, followed by an overnight. On the day of the visit John presented Greg with a backpack, into which Greg packed a DVD, five dinosaurs, a coloring book, and a box of crayons. Then he was letting John take his hand and they were out the door and climbing into Mike’s car. 

John checked the straps holding the car seat, helped Greg buckle the chest strap, and gave it a tug before climbing in next to Mike. 

Stamford gave him a sideways glance. “I know they don’t teach car seats in med school. Picked it up in the army, did you?” 

“YouTube. Believe me, the straps on my gear were easier.” 

“John?” Greg spoke from the backseat. “Do you like pinwheel biscuits?” 

“I do, yes. I know a coffee shop that has nice ones. Maybe we’ll go there sometime.” 

“Mrs Hudson makes them. She tells Sherlock off for stealing them, but I don’t think she really minds ‘cos she always makes more.” 

Mike shared a smile with John and commented, “That’s pretty insightful.” 

“What’s insightful mean?”

“It means you observed something, and worked out what it meant about how someone is feeling.” 

“Sherlock’s teaching me. He does it all the time.” 

John nodded. Reading people was more acceptable than picking pockets, and applicable in more situations. He certainly made us of it, watching his patients for signs of pain, or fear, or depression. 

Greg spent the ride asking questions; why didn’t John have a car, how did he do his shopping without one, was there a good playground near his house. His questions trailed off when Mike pulled into the little residential neighborhood and parked in the alley behind John’s terrace house. “It’s the one at the end, there.” John pointed out the door and began unbuckling the car seat.

“I thought you’d live in a by-itself house.” 

“Hmm, no. But there’s a garden out back that I think you’ll like.” He handed over the backpack of supplies and hurried to unlock the door for his guests. 

The door opened onto a short hallway, with the kitchen door opening off the left side. Inside, he showed Greg the hook he’d installed at child’s height, mentioned that his bedroom would be right up the stairs that ran up next to the kitchen wall, and led the way through the doorway at the end of the hall. The sitting room was open and bright, with wide windows and a sliding door that led to the garden. A light fawn colored loveseat faced the entertainment center along the exterior wall, bracketed by two cozy chairs.He’d put a basket of picture books next to a chair-and-a-half on one side of the room, with a storage cabinet of puzzles and diecast cars serving as an end table. Mike smiled at these preparations, but Greg was already moving toward the sliding door on the other side of the chair. John gave him an encouraging nod, and gestured for Mike to join them.

“I’ll be right out. Just need to get my clipboard.” He lifted a messenger bag from his shoulder to the coffee table and began unfastening the flap. “Go on, I know you’re dying to show him.” 

John grinned at his friend, and followed Greg outdoors.

“You’ve got a garden, and a picnic table. Can you eat out here?” 

“No reason why not. Come here a minute, though, I want to show you something else.” The back edge of the garden was marked with a woven-slat privacy screen. To the left, two small steps led to a balcony with a low safety railing. From here, it was clear that the land dropped suddenly from private garden to multipurpose greenway. 

Greg stopped short, staring through the railing and gasping, “There’s a RIVER!” 

“Regent’s Canal, actually.” John pointed out the tow path. “That’s a nice place to walk or ride a bike.” 

Greg didn’t so much as glance where John was pointing, his attention caught by a boat that was moored some distance off. “There’s a narrowboat!” 

“They go past sometimes. Canoes and kayaks, too.” 

“I gotta tell Mr Stamford.” Greg ran back to the house, and John could hear him announcing his discovery. He followed, entering the living room to hear Greg parroting his words about the tow path; he’d been paying more attention than John had thought. After Greg had explained that the boat he’d seen had a traditional stern, he asked what they were going to do. 

“I thought we might make some play clay,” he offered his suggested activity. 

“You can make that?” 

“So the internet says, but I’ll need some help. Remember where the kitchen is?” 

Greg nodded and took off down the hallway. 

The kitchen was painted pale blue, with open shelves over the sink and a wide window that overlooked the alleyway. John offered Mike a seat by the window, helped Greg don an old shirt turned back-to-front, and pulled a chair in front of the stove. He pointed out the recipe he’d taped to the cupboard door. “Flour and salt,” he said, handing the measuring cup to Greg so he could dump it into the saucepan. 

“Flour and salt,” Greg repeated. 

John scooped some cream of tartar into the pot, and poured water and oil into the measuring cup. “Okay, now, pour this carefully, right? Try not to splash.”

Greg did that, and asked,“What color is it going to be?” 

John held up the little vials of food dye. “Your choice.” 

“Blue!” He let several drops fall into the mixture, and set to stirring it while John turned on the heat. “I don’t think it’s working. It doesn’t look like play dough.” 

“It’ll work.” Please let it work. Surely the number of websites that had featured this recipe was an indication of reliability. “Keep stirring.” 

John put his hands over Greg’s and helped him scrape the sides and bottom of the pan. “There, see, it’s getting thicker. Just a bit longer.” 

Soon they had a squishy ball in the bottom of the pan, and John was transferring the hot clay to the table for cooling and kneading. “No, wait. It’s still hot.” Sectioned into four parts, the clay cooled quickly and they were able to build dinosaurs, snakes, and a TARDIS. 

“Do you think the Doctor can really travel in time?” Greg hesitated over the question, speaking low. 

Across the table, John felt Mike’s attention tighten, though the other man gave no visible sign.  
John’s question to answer, then, as befitted a guardian-to-be. From the options that presented themselves, John chose the most noncommittal. “That’d be pretty great if he could, wouldn’t it? I used to wish I could be the companion. It seems like the Doctor can fix anything, just about.” 

Greg nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes the people are silly, on the show, but he helps them know what to do. I wouldn’t ever be scared if I was on the TARDIS.” 

“But you know, you’ve got real people all around you. Me, and Mrs Hudson, and Sherlock. Mr Stamford, and Molly, too. Things are scary right now, I know, but we all want to help.” 

“Yeah.” Greg smushed the model and squeezed the dough through his fingers. They sat in silence for awhile, taking turns poking holes in John’s lump of clay, until Greg announced that he was a ‘pizza guy’ and would make John’s favorite. 

All too soon, it was time to put away the clay and pack up Greg’s backpack. After waving Greg and Stamford goodbye, John retrieved a beer from the fridge. Sinking into the sofa, he found an old match on the telly, and was only slightly surprised to find himself mentally explaining the plays to a young audience. There was one more day outing, and then the overnight visit in two weeks. Forever, to a four year old with no family; just long enough, for a 34 year old with child-proofing to finish.


	3. Chapter 3

John was quite tense enough, without the decrepit lift bumping and jolting on its way to the third floor. A few deep breaths helped ease the tightness in his chest, that he refused to label as ‘nerves’. Apprehension, that he might be willing to admit, if only to himself. The questions in his notebook weren’t deal breakers, just areas where he needed clarification. Mike had indicated that John was welcome to request additional information as questions came up, and John had taken him at his word and set up an appointment. The process seemed interminable, sometimes, full of hurdles and home studies and questionnaires. 

“One step at a time, Watson.” He’d already been fast-tracked, with just a few visits left to ensure an appropriate placement. Pushing for things to move more rapidly than they already were wasn’t going to be helpful.

He didn’t need the plaque on the wall, this time, telling him to turn left for Mike’s office, or the sign beside the door inviting him to have a seat in the small waiting area. He was a few minutes early, and there were voices coming from the inner office, so John sank into the vinyl padded chair and began reviewing his list. It wasn’t until he heard his own name that he realized it was Sherlock in Mike’s office, and began listening more closely.

“Did you read the report? John -Dr Watson- couldn’t have handled it better. It was instinctive, and exactly the correct thing to do.” 

Mike’s voice was exasperated. “Yes, Sherlock, I did read the report. I’m a bit concerned that you seem also to have read it. Privacy laws aside-”

“You didn’t mind when I read the candidate files and identified John as the best match.” 

“Resignation isn’t the same thing as approval. You’d already looked over the files, and it happened that I agreed with your assessment. For altogether different reasons, mind. I have to deal with what’s known and reportable, not suppositions from someone who isn’t officially involved at any level. You’re not even on the investigation, are you?” 

“I will be soon. Dimmock’s new to the job; still trying to prove himself .He doesn’t like to admit when he needs help. Which is irrelevant to the fact that Greg needs a placement, Mike. The danger-”. ”

“You’re overstating the danger,” Mike cut in. “We’re already expediting his placement. I can’t do any more than that, especially for an early shifter. I’d actually like to keep my job, and the procedures exist for a reason.”

“The longer you leave him at Baker Street, the greater the danger to Mrs Hudson.”

What? Plenty of people still assumed an early shifter was dangerous to everyone they came into contact with, feral creatures balanced on temper’s edge between violence and civility. John would never have expected Sherlock to hold such views. If Greg was to hear this opinion voiced by someone he desperately idolized- well, John just wasn’t going to allow it. He gave a perfunctory knock on the door, then pushed it open without waiting for an answer. 

His voice was a low growl, the muscles in his forearm taut as he pointed menacingly at Sherlock. “You listen to me. Greg is not a threat to Mrs Hudson or anyone else, and I won’t have people saying so. Especially you. Greg trusts you; do you know what a gift that is? If he hears that you think he might hurt someone...no. If you honestly believe that, you just keep it to yourself. He’s not to hear of it.” 

Mike came around the desk, hands raised and voice quiet. “John, I think you’ve misunderstood.” 

Sherlock was watching John with all the satisfaction of a scientist who’s hypothesis had been proven. “But his reaction is telling. I’m right, and the sooner Greg is living with him, the better.”

“Because he’ll be away from you,” John gritted out. 

Mike took a fortifying breath. “Yeah, this isn’t really...look, my office is too small for this. Conference room down the hall, number 323. We’ll sort this out there.” Mike kept as much space between himself and his snarling friend as possible, simply gesturing for John to precede him out of the office.

John nodded once, turned briskly, and strode down the hall to the room Mike had specified. He stood pointedly in the corner, protecting his vulnerable back, until Sherlock had taken a seat at the oval table. Only when he could keep the other man under his eye did John take a seat at the opposite side. 

Mike seated himself at the head of the table and took charge of the conversation. “John, your defense of Greg is admirable, but you’ve misunderstood. Sherlock, I’ll let you explain please.” The words were polite, but Mike’s tone made it clear that he wasn’t actually making a request..”

Resting his elbows on the table, Sherlock began. “I was called to the scene after Greg’s parents died. The police knew only that there was a child missing, that the neighbors hadn’t seen him since the day before. You already know that he was in shift form when I found him.. Not so well known is that afterwards I called in some favors; made sure Mike was his case-worker, suggested Mrs Hudson as a temporary foster provider. I wanted to be able to keep an eye on him. I don’t believe the official explanation of a domestic dispute resulting in a murder/suicide. I think it was a double murder, witnessed by Greg, and the fire was an attempt to destroy evidence.”

John crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back. “That’s ridiculous. On what grounds?”

“Greg was physically unharmed, but in the majority of murder/suicides within the shifter population, the children are also killed. Then there’s the fire; frequently used to cover up murder, yes, but almost never to cover suicide. No need to destroy evidence, because you can’t prosecute a corpse. Most telling, though, is that Greg was found in a neighbor’s garage. He got in through a side door that was closed when I found him. A side door with a traditional door-knob. He didn’t shift, and then flee. He ran away in human form, and something happened afterwards that caused him to fear shift.”

“The fire. His home was burning.” 

“No. You’re a doctor, think it through. Fear shifts in adults require incredibly high levels of cortisol-w, but in pre-shift children? Enough cortisol-w to counter the thymosin-b and allow the release of shift-factor? He wasn’t just scared, he was afraid for his life. What would cause a young boy, who had already hidden in a dark garage, to fear shift? Obvious. He was being pursued.” 

John thought back to Greg wanting to leave the park when the other children began playing tag, recalled Greg’s words when John described Harry running after the ducks. _I don’t like people who chase._ God, it really did make sense. And if that was the case, Sherlock’s remark about Mrs Hudson being in danger meant-

“You think someone is still after him. You picked me, out of Mike’s candidates, because-”

“Who better to protect him than a soldier?”

“Ex-soldier.”

Sherlock waved that distinction aside. “Instinct, reflexes, dedication. Those are ingrained in your personality. You may no longer wear the uniform, but you are a soldier. Your entire bearing is military. It’s obvious.” 

John stared at him for a moment, then turned questioningly to Mike, who nodded ruefully. 

“Yeah, pretty much. Maybe not to everyone, but my dad was RAF, so I know it when I see it.”

“Right. Okay.” John took a few deep breaths, deliberately unclenched his fists, and spoke to Mike in a softer voice. “I apologize for barging in. Where do we go from here?” 

“I think we have our meeting. And since this room is available, how about I go get my notes?” At John’s nod, he slipped out of the room. 

In the silence, Sherlock asked, “What’s the current timetable? It really will be safer for Greg to be with you.” 

John looked up from his notebook. “Outing on Friday, then an overnight next week. If that goes well, he’ll move to mine right after.” 

Sherlock nodded and hummed. “What were you thinking, for the outing?” 

“Going to arrange protection?” 

“The thought had occurred.” 

John frowned. “Honestly, it should be pretty safe. I thought we’d do one of those canal tours, seeing as he loves boats so much. My place backs up to Regent’s Canal, there’s a couple good tour companies that go past it.” 

Sherlock said, speculatively, “Mrs Hudson won’t want to come; Greg likes boats, but she doesn’t. And tour boats can be crowded. But I think we can do better than that, if you’ll allow me to accompany you?” 

John couldn’t think of a polite way to decline, even if he’d wanted to. His resentment had vanished upon hearing Sherlock’s explanation, and John wanted to see more of those observational skills. Wanted to witness more of that incredible reasoning. Wanted, if he was honest, to hear more of that deep voice.

“That’d be great.”

“Then I will bring Greg, and pick you up around ten.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” 

*~*

John categorically didn’t spend a lot of time deciding on a shirt for their outing. Absolutely didn’t change more than twice. Certainly didn’t spend extra time on his morning shave. This was just an outing with Greg and his...friend. Yes. Gorgeous friend, and noticing that didn’t mean anything. He’d have to be blind and deaf not to notice. The doorbell rang just as he was debating putting sculpting wax in his hair, and he shut the medicine chest door with a relieved sigh and went to answer the bell.

It was a short trip by cab to the Battlebridge Basin, where Sherlock was hailed by a man even shorter than John. “Sherlock! Who have you brought me?” 

“Charles Woodruff, Captain of the Starling; this is Doctor John Watson, soon to be guardian to Greg Lestrade. Captain Woodruff has agreed to take us down the canal. We’ll disembark at Browning’s Pool, and catch a cab back to John’s place for lunch. Stamford will join us there.” 

“We’re going on a BOAT?” Greg’s eyes were enormous. “We get to go on a BOAT?” 

“We are indeed. First, though, you’ll need to put this on.” The bearded man held out a bright yellow life-vest. Greg stuck his arms straight out from his sides for it to be snugged around his small body. “Come this way, then, and watch your step there on the dock. See the black and yellow boat? That’s the Starling. Now, I know she’s smaller than a lot of the boats you see. But she’s got class and charm, and she’s never let me down.” He led Greg down the pier, Sherlock and John following slowly behind. 

“Sherlock. A private boat tour?” 

“Greg likes boats. And Charlie owes me a favor.” In response to John’s questioning look, he explained, “The authorities thought his son was taking runaways off the streets and pimping them.”

“You got him off?”

“In a manner of speaking. He was selling drugs, not sex. He was using the Starling as his distribution center, and giving a few homeless kids a bed off the street.” 

Sherlock stepped nimbly onto the aft deck, and reached back to offer a steadying hand. John resolutely ignored how the long fingers curled around his palm, warm and strong. Greg had already descended into cabin and was exclaiming over the fittings. “Sherlock! John! This boat has bunk beds! Just like my toy one!”

“That’s amazing,” John called back. Under his breath John said to Sherlock, “And probably about the same size.” 

“Greg would fit. You might, too,” he smirked, “but I don’t imagine I would.” 

Which would have the perfect opening for John to drag his eyes up and down the miles of leg, making some observation about exactly how much mattress Sherlock took up. Flirting, he reminded himself, was not on the agenda. Instead he just huffed in amused agreement, and followed Sherlock down the narrow steps. The bunks were every bit as undersized as he’d imagined; nobody much past puberty would sleep comfortably in them. Beyond the bunks and a closet sized space that enclosed what John assumed was the head, the saloon opened out into a miniscule galley and comparatively generous seating area with padded benches. Wide windows opened to the breeze, the sunny yellow curtains snugged back behind a railing that ran under the windows. Greg was already up two steps and out to the forward deck, where a pair of benches allowed passengers to sit in the fresh air. John saw their captain handing him a piece of black fabric, which was revealed to be a pirate hat that fitted snugly over his dark brown hair. A moment later Greg popped back into the saloon, beaming at the men.

“Look at my hat!”

John admired it, snapped a picture for Mrs Hudson, and asked, “Did you thank Captain Woodruff?” 

“Charlie, please. Very polite, he was. I’ll just get us underway.” 

Greg followed Charlie to the stern deck, the better to watch the casting off, and let loose a piercing howl as they pulled away from the dock. Charlie laughed indulgently, and they weren’t actually inside, so John let it pass. But he did remind Greg to mind the edges of the boat so he didn’t fall into the canal. 

Charlie indicated the canvas panels that boxed in the deck. “He’s safe enough, so long’s he keeps inside the dodger. I’ll keep an eye on ‘im, Dr Watson. He’ll probably want to go forward after a bit, anyway. More to see.”

John nodded, and returned to the saloon, eager to take advantage of this opportunity to speak with Sherlock about a request he’d been set on since his meeting with Mike. “Look, Sherlock, can I ask you something?” Getting a nod, he pushed on. “I still have physio a couple times a month, and sometimes I get called to consult on trauma cases. When I talked to Stamford, he said that selecting backup childminders was up to me.” 

“Mrs Hudson is an obvious choice. She cares about Greg, and is comfortably familiar to him..”

“Yes, she’s already agreed. But I wanted to ask you, too. Mrs Hudson might not always be available, and Greg will already be working with you on shifting...” In the face of Sherlock’s incredulous stare, John trailed off. Sherlock was a busy man, with a job that had unpredictable hours. Of course he wasn’t going to want to sacrifice flexibility to babysit. A couple of hours a week for shift lessons was one thing; childminding at a moment’s notice was something else entirely. John opened his mouth to backtrack and apologize, but Sherlock was already speaking. 

“There are some who would think it inappropriate to leave me unsupervised with such a young child.” He buried it well under his matter-of-fact tone, but John didn’t miss the faint thread of bitterness in the unexpected answer. 

“‘Some People’ aren’t going to be Greg’s guardian. I am, and I think you’re the ideal choice. He looks up to you. He trusts you. So do I.”

“You needn’t keep apologizing for misunderstanding my concerns. I found your defense of Greg admirable.”

Admirable? Sherlock found him admirable? John tucked that revelation away for later examination. “Not actually why I’m asking. But if you’re too busy, or just not inclined to do it, that’s fine.”

Sherlock gave him a searching look. He must have found whatever he was looking for because he asked, “What do you have in mind, Doctor Watson?” 

“We can discuss the details at mine, maybe, later? As long as you’re open to the idea?” John winced, but the words were innocent enough. Unless Sherlock knew how often he’d said them in a different context. A context which his new lifestyle rendered inappropriate at best, and not actually what he thought he might someday allow himself to want. One new relationship at a time, Watson. He pushed through, pretending there hadn’t been another possible meaning. “It’ll just be until he starts school, probably.” 

Sherlock immediately latched on to this new information. “You’re sending him to school instead of homeschooling? To what purpose?”

Maybe he really had missed the flirtation implied by John’s choice of words. Granted that homeschooling was more common in the were community than among humans, it wasn’t the default. The only reason Sherlock might think so was if he’d been homeschooled himself. “Learning social skills, among other things.” 

“You believe the best teacher of social convention is a group of other young children?” 

“I know. It defies logic. And yet, society continues to function.” 

Their eyes met, and John froze, the smile only halfway across his face. Something had snapped between them, light and sharp and fizzing. Sherlock felt it, too, if the flush on his cheeks was any indication. . Clearly, he’d not missed John’s slip-up earlier. John cleared his throat, but was saved having to say anything when Greg came barrelling into the saloon. “John! Sherlock! Captain Charlie says I can help drive the boat! Come watch!” 

“That’s amazing!” John caught the hug around his waist. “We should get some pictures, too, for Mrs Hudson.” 

Greg dashed away, assured that they would follow, and John quickly said, “My place? After? To discuss?”

“If you like.” 

John cleared his suddenly tight throat, and headed to the safety of the stern, and a four year-old steersman.

On the deck, Charlie was instructing Greg. “Just put your hands over mine.” Greg’s hands looked very small and pale against the weathered boatman’s. “Now then, do you know your right from your left?”

Greg shook his head, and Charlie nodded. “Gives everyone some trouble from time to time. But here, look. Right there on the sides of the cabin, see in the fancy work? There’s a red flower on the left side, down at the bottom. Boat people call that side port, and port t means left. Now, see on the other side, the green star above the castle? That’s the starboard side.”

“Star for starboard! That’s funny!” 

“And what do you suppose starboard means?”

“Port means left, so starboard must mean right.” 

“Just so. There’s another boat coming up, so we want to move a bit to starboard. Starling, she’s a little thing and nimble to the helm. But even those big bruisers, they just want little movements.” The tiller barely moved as he demonstrated the gentle adjustments that would keep the boat’s course true. 

Greg’s brow was furrowed, watching the nose of the boat confusedly. “But…” he looked up at Charlie. “It goes the wrong way. You wanted the boat to go starboard but you pushed your hand...um…”.

“Port. You’ve figured out the secret. As the rudder goes, so goes the stern. And since the boat is one long straight line, the bow has to go the other way.” 

John snapped a few pictures of the grinning boy. London slipped by on either side, elegant houses and other vessels, pedestrians on the tow-path. 

“See this bridge coming up?” Charlie asked Greg. “It’s official name is the Macclesfield bridge. But most people call it the blow-up bridge.” John grinned at Greg’s wide eyed amazement and waited until the story had been told to suggest he come forward.

“There’s something you’re going to want to see up ahead.” 

Sherlock joined them on the forward deck, and they soon saw an enormous mesh structure rising overhead.

“What is it?” Greg tilted his head so far back he was almost lying in John’s lap. “Hey! There’s birds up there! BIG ones!” 

“It’s an aviary, which is an enclosure for birds. And that particular specimen is a northern bald ibis,” Sherlock identified them. “Critically endangered; only a few hundred are left in Morocco.” 

“Why?” 

“People moving into their territory and cutting down the trees. Or hunting.” 

Greg scowled. “It’s not fair to chase things that are smaller than you. Those birds never hurt anyone.” 

“No. But there are some really amazing people who are working really hard, trying to help,” John answered. 

When he looked up, Sherlock was staring perplexedly at him. Before he could remark on the odd look, Greg drew his eye toward other birds in the aviary, and the moment was lost.

John was prepared to distract Greg from the gloom of the Maida Hill Tunnel, but he was unafraid, and a bit disappointed when they wouldn’t allow him to howl in it’s echoing vault. And then they were disembarking, Greg thanked Charlie enthusiastically, and they boarded a cab back to John’s house. In honor of the day, John ordered pizza, with salads for the adults, and lunch was taken outside so Greg could relive the adventure while watching the canal. Mike came to collect Greg after lunch, but couldn’t leave until after Greg had dragged him through the house to show him where they’d gone past John’s house. 

“Are we still good for next week?” Mike asked John on his way out the door. 

“Absolutely. I’m looking forward to it.” There were a few changes yet to make on the second bedroom, but Greg had seemed satisfied with it already. 

Alone with Sherlock, John offered to make tea and resolutely focused on the task at hand. They took the tea out to the patio, where Sherlock examined the fence and balcony, looking for spaces where a pup could get through. “Will you want us to do the shifting practice here? The incident at the park was exceptional; he isn’t usually fearful.” 

“Where have you been working up till now?”

“Primarily indoors; there isn’t an enclosed garden at Baker Street. This could be ideal. Enough room for him to explore without being overwhelming. Scents from the garden and sounds from the canal; that’ll help him with learning how to filter the sensory input. Are the neighbors okay with weres?”

“Harry had my going away howl here.” He’d thought the memory overwritten with fear, with the pungence of gun oil and desert plants, but it was clear in his mind now. One last gathering before he’d shipped out; before Clara was supplanted by the bottle. The garden had been lit with fairy lights and lanterns, shift robes draped over the furniture as the dew fell. John recalled how good the cool evening felt on hot fur, the scent of crushed grass and damp earth rising around his head. Tracking the small nocturnal creatures that passed unseen, and knowing where there was fungus growing beneath the earth, or exactly how long it had been since the last rain. Wrestling with his sibling and her mate, the scent of their fur singing in his blood. Here had been home, belonging, safety. Pack. He had clung to these memories, comforted himself with the anticipated return, during those first weeks in Afghanistan. False comfort, as it came to pass. 

He closed his eyes, overcome with sorrow and aching for his shift-form. 

“How long has it been?” If there had been any pity in that velvet voice, he’d never have answered. But Sherlock’s question was strictly clinical; just asking after a detail he apparently couldn’t read from John’s face. 

“I was shot 14 months ago. Shifters can’t wait for medical support, so were-specialists can’t stay as far back from the front lines as the human docs.” He tipped his head back, eyes on the branches overhead. “I was in with a mixed unit; humans and weres. We were overrun. Took shelter a few miles away, but the evac team couldn’t get through until the next afternoon, and my team didn’t have enough suppressants. They tried to stretch them, holding off on doses until the healing had started, but it turns out that’s a bad idea.” 

“Your body cycled between healing and suppression; each dose allowing bacteria to multiply, each delay gave your body a chance to seal them in.” Were-healing; blessing and curse. Tissue and bone knitting themselves together with grit and fabric still beneath the skin. Sherlock’s eyes were roving assessingly over John’s arm. “Nerve damage. Surgeries?”

“Four debridement procedures, two with bone scrapings.” And a fair bit of therapy so he could forgive people who’d done their best without understanding all the ramifications of their actions. “It wasn’t pleasant, but it did save my shift. Staying in human shape for a few more months seems like a reasonable trade.” Most of the time. “So. Do his lessons here, right? I can be fairly flexible with times.”

“Afternoons would probably be best. If I call the day before, is that enough notice?”

“Yeah, I think so. And we can both cancel, if things come up. I know your work is probably unpredictable, and I’m on the call list at St. Francis. I guess that’s less likely to be a problem, though, since Mrs Hudson’s my first backup.” 

Sherlock stood up, buttoned his jacket, and nodded at John. “Then, if that’s settled, I’ll be in touch after the placement is official.” 

John walked into the house with him. “I can call you a cab, if you’d like.”

“Not necessary. I like walking, and I know where the stands are.” 

“Of course you do.” With a grin, John opened the door and waved Sherlock farewell. He counted it a successful day: he’d furthered his connection to Greg, who had thoroughly enjoyed the outing, and cemented the plans to keep Sherlock in Greg’s life. And in his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The views on homeschooling vs a more traditional model are not mine, but they are certainly opinions I've heard expressed. Personally, I'm a big believer in school choice, having had my children in home school, public school online, and traditional educational settings.


	4. Chapter 4

When he first met Molly, John had been surprised that someone so delicate and shy was working on Mike’s team. He’d quickly been disabused of that notion; Molly was certainly small and soft-spoken, but she was also older than her flowered blouses and pony tails made her appear. In meetings and during home visits John came to understand that, although she’d seen heartbreak and tragedy in her time with Were Services, she hadn’t become jaded or cold. Her petite size and gentle smile belied an enviable inner strength.

“Greg, Miss Hooper. Come on in.” John opened the door and ushered them through the entry hall. They’d arrived at the final hurdle: and overnight visit at John’s house. 

“Where do you want his bag?” Molly held up a backpack. 

“How about you show Miss Hooper your bedroom?” To Molly he added, “I’ve made a couple last-minute additions up there.”

Greg came and took Molly’s hand, leading her carefully up the stairs. He pointed left. “That’s the bathroom, and John’s room is there.” To the right were two more bedrooms; Greg pointed to the smaller one. “That’s the guest room. And John says this one is for me.” 

John had added some art supplies to the desk, and a framed poster of narrowboats on the wall alongside the captain style bed. The corkboard held pictures from their outing; Greg in his pirate’s hat, holding the tiller, and another of the three of them standing on the foredeck. A small smile flickered across Greg’s face when he saw them, but faded quickly. He put the backpack at the foot of the bed. “Can I play with the cars?” 

“Sure thing, kiddo. Remember where they are?” After Greg had departed, John looked earnestly at Molly. “He seems a little subdued. Everything okay?”

“We’ve kept it as easy for him as we could, but it’s been stressful all the same. I think he’s feeling it, a little. It’s all such serious business for someone so young.”

“Almost done, though.” 

“Absolutely. If the weekend goes well, you’ll be his official guardian by next week. And honestly, it’s just a formality at this point. Everyone on the team knows you’re well suited.” She smiled then, a genuine happy smile instead of the familiar professional one. “What are your plans for the weekend?”

“We talked about doing some planting out back; I picked up supplies for that yesterday. Tomorrow, maybe we’ll head to the park. Just a regular weekend, really.”

“That’s perfect. So many try to make that first overnight an Event, and it can set up false expectations. It really is better to begin as you mean to go on.” 

John nodded, deciding that getting both pizza and ice cream in the same weekend was a precedent he was willing to set. After walking Molly out, John returned to the sitting room. Greg sat in the center of a miniature traffic jam, selecting his favorites from the cars he’d spread out in rows all around himself. John sank down next to him. A green sports car drove jerkily around his foot, propelled with little flicks of Greg’s index finger. John used his own to drive an SUV alongside. “Where’re they going?” 

“I dunno. Shopping I guess.” Greg shrugged, but looked warily up through his fringe to asses John’s reaction. He picked up a yellow motorcycle and spun the front wheel. “Maybe they need pizzas and ice cream.” 

Setting a precedent, indeed. Well, occasional wish-fulfillment never hurt anyone. 

John nodded. “Could be.. Or maybe they borrowed the car, and they’re coming back from the garden center with supplies for a special project.” 

It took a moment to sink in, but when it did, Greg’s sulk vanished. “Is it the plants? It is, isn’t it? It’s plants. For the garden?” Greg unceremoniously flung the cars into their basket, in keeping with their agreement that one thing get put away before moving on to another. John knew it wouldn’t last, but at least the agreement gave him the upper hand. “Where are they? On the patio? Come ON!”

Getting up from the floor was harder than down, and Greg was pulling on his hand in his eagerness to get into the dirt. John harbored no illusions that he was excited about the actual plants; adding color to the back garden was simply a side benefit. Which was fine; John had a hidden motive as well.

A pair of plain pots, terra-cotta orange for contrast against the weathered privacy fence, waited on one side of the patio. Greg ran to the balcony, looking for boats, before coming back to the task at hand. John helped him drag the bag of potting soil over and offered up a child-sized work apron. 

“We’ll start with the soil, yeah?.” The bag tore open easily, and the smell of sun-warmed earth drifted up. Greg’s eyes widened, and he inhaled deeply. 

“It smells good!” He drew in another deep breath, instinctively peeling his lips back from his teeth to better scent the air and plunging his hands into the damp mix. “It’s warm, and it smells good and it squishes.” His fingers, when he pulled them out, were clenched around compacted lumps of soil which he smashed together and let crumble back into the bag. John hauled over the first planter and offered a coffee mug as a scoop. 

“Fill it up to about here-” -he tapped the side of the pot- “and then we’ll put the flowers in.”

Greg began shoveling the mixture into the pot with more enthusiasm than accuracy, scattering soil around the base of the pot, and John was glad of the apron. “What kind of flowers did you get?”

“Impatiens for the middle, alyssum for around the edges.” John set the plastic pots out to approximate the arrangement the nursery had suggested. “I thought we could mix up the colors, so there’s purple in both pots.” 

For a time the only sounds were the crackle of the plastic bag and the hushed noise of soil mounding into the pot. Finally, Greg asked seriously, “If I come to live here, can I bring my nightlight?”

“Of course.” John knew Greg had seen the one currently in the bedroom, and realized this question had nothing to do with being afraid of the dark. 

“I’ll miss Mrs Hudson. And Sherlock.” Greg frowned down at the soil he was smoothing. 

“Stop there, it’s full enough. I know you’ll miss your friends. But Sherlock will still be helping you with your shifting exercises. And Mrs Hudson will look after you if I have to work,” John reassured, while his hands worked the plants out of their plastic containers. He kept to himself his plan to eventually enroll Greg in a local school, where he hoped the boy would connect with more age-appropriate companions. “Here, see how I’m putting them in? About this far apart, and not too deep.” His gloved hands dug and tucked, filled and firmed, until there was a cheerful cluster of pinks and purples in the center. “Think you can do the alyssum, around the side?” 

“Yeah, I can do that.” Greg took the package of flowers in his small hands and carefully mimicked John’s movements to release them from the stiff plastic, tongue poking out of his pursed lips. He didn’t seem to need much help, so John turned his attention to the second pot. When he looked back, he saw that his experiment had borne fruit. Greg was leaning over the completed planter, face rapt as he sniffed at each type of flower in turn. “They smell good!” 

“Yep. But only to people with shift-senses. Humans can’t smell them at all.” 

“But they can’t smell other things, too. Like busses, and the sauerkraut at Speedy’s.”

“That’s true. Right now your brain is trying to figure out how much attention it needs to give to things. It’ll get easier.” He hoped so, anyway. It had for him. 

John pulled off the gloves and retrieved the broom, directing Greg to hold the dustpan and empty the spilled soil back into the bag. Maybe they could get some herbs and pot them up as a gift to Mrs Hudson. There was a nice sunny window in her kitchen. 

“John?” Greg’s voice broke into his thoughts. 

“Yeah?” 

“What are we having for dinner?”

He supposed it probably was nearly meal time. “How about pizza?” 

“Yeah!” He was nearly to the door when John stopped him. 

“Look at your hands. How ‘bout I call it in while you wash up?” He’d had the foresight to put the delivery number on speed dial. “You want extra broccoli on yours, right?”

“Nuh-uh! Cheese and bacon and olives.” Greg hurried into the house and John could hear him thundering up the stairs to the bathroom.

“Right.” He decided to compromise on his own order, skipping the more usual salad in favor of a vegetable and cheese calzone. Keeping up with Greg was going to require extra energy.

~*~

The boxes were in the wheely bin and Greg had helped tidy the kitchen, rinsing the dishes while John stacked the dishwasher. That they then needed to mop the kitchen wasn’t surprising, at least with the benefit of hindsight. Now the dishwasher was running, and the mop was wrung out and hung up. Greg had changed into red fleece pyjamas and settled in for a DVD of Word Wolves, curling into the corner of the sofa. Every so often he looked up with wide, sad eyes, turning away when he saw John watching. 

“You know, we could probably call Mrs Hudson to say goodnight. If you want to.” 

“Yeah. I guess.” The huddled figure didn’t move, even when John set his mobile on the coffee table. 

Finally, Greg spoke, so softly that John almost missed it. .

“John? Sometimes I get scared at night.” 

“Everyone does, kiddo.”

“Even you?” Bottomless eyes looked searchingly at John, seeking...what? Comfort, yes, but also assistance. Greg needed help, and John immediately discarded the comfortable lie.

“Yep. Even me.”

“What do you do?”

“Sometimes I turn on the light and read for a little while. Sometimes I get a drink of water, and fluff up the blankets again, and go back to sleep. Sometimes I talk to a friend.” Choices were good, right? Give him some possibilities, let him decide. “And sometimes it helps if I have my old lion.” 

Disbelievingly, Greg said, “You don’t have a lion.”

John walked over to the television cabinet to collect the remote control, and pointed to an ancient plush lion sitting next to a much newer red dragon. “That’s Leroy, and his new friend.” He scooped them up and brought them to where Greg was sitting up, wide eyed. John handed him the dragon and tucked the battered feline under his own arm. The room fell silent when he paused the video so they could talk without distraction. 

“When I was just a little older than you are, I had to get my tonsils taken out. It was pretty scary. My gran came to stay with us, and she gave me Leroy.” He stroked a fingertip over the thinning mane. “Leroy came with me to hospital. Gran told me that when I was having trouble being brave, Leroy would help me. That’s why she’d gotten a lion, she said. Because he was so ferocious.”

“Did it work?” Greg asked breathlessly.

“Still does. That’s why I can’t give you Leroy; I still need him sometimes. But when I found that dragon, I knew he’d help you.” 

“Teddy bears are for babies.” 

“You’re not a baby. Neither am I.” He gestured to their toys. “So I guess these aren’t teddy bears.” 

“I’m gonna call him Fang.” 

“That’s a perfect name. So if you get scared at night, or anytime really, you can count on Fang to help you feel brave. Brave enough to come and find me, if you need to.” 

“But what if I...do something else? Something not good?” He wouldn’t meet John’s eyes, kept his gaze on his own fingers, stroking over the eponymous teeth on his new friend. John reached out and covered Greg’s hand with his own.

“Greg. I know right now you’re feeling so many things that you can’t even name them all. And that you’ve had some trouble with shifting when you’re scared. I hope you don’t shift, because I don’t want you to be feeling that upset or frightened. I really hope you’ll come to me and let me help, before it gets that bad. But if you don’t, if you can’t, if you do change, it won’t mean you’re bad. It just means you’re scared. And when that happens, I’ll try to help you feel better. No matter what shape you’re in.”

“Okay.”

“It was really brave of you to tell me about it. I’m glad you did.” 

Together, they sank into the cushy sofa to watch the video. By the time it ended, Greg was slumped over onto John’s thigh, half dozing. Not that surprising, really, although it was just now eight o’clock. The strains and excitements of the past few weeks had to be taking a toll. “C’mon, kiddo. Bed’s a better place for sleeping; the pillow is softer than my leg.” He shifted, getting his arms around the warm and malleable body that was somehow heavier and more fragile, curled and draped trustingly over John, than it was when awake. Somehow John made it up the stairs without breaking Greg’s somnolence. His shoulder twinged warningly as he balanced the boy on his good arm and stretched to turn back the coverlet, but he ignored it in favor of getting all the arms and legs tucked in. Greg, it appeared, was a sprawler. He spread out, burrowed his head into the pillow, and fell into deep slumber all at once. In the hallway, John couldn’t resist taking one last look, checking that the door was cracked open and the soft glow from the nightlight kept the room from being too dark. 

Downstairs, he made a sweep through the sitting room to collect stray playthings, and switched the television to a news programme for background noise while he worked through the stretches and exercises his physiotherapist had set for this week. The evening was like many others, quiet voices on the telly counterpointing the steady counting as he worked through his reps, but there was a different quality to the ordinary process of winding down. There was a palpable weight to the air, of vulnerability and trust. John’s need to protect the child upstairs made him stop in the middle of a set to check that the doors were locked, the patio drapes pulled tightly shut against the night, before sitting down to complete his routine once their den was secure. He jumped when his phone rang, and he glanced over to see Mike’s name on the display. “John Watson. What’s up, Mike?”

“John, I’m sorry to disturb your time with Greg, but something’s come up. I want to ask first though, how things are going?” 

“Fine, yeah, just fine. He’s asleep already. We did some plantings, had pizza. Watched telly for a while. Had a few serious moments. This whole thing, it’s really hard on him.” 

Mike sighed heavily. “I’m sorry. I’m about to make it a lot harder, but I don’t have any other choice. I had a call from the police. The detective in charge of the investigation wants to attend Monday’s therapy session. It seems that one of the bodies was mis-identified. The man who died wasn’t Emil Lestrade.” 

John went utterly still. “You mean Greg’s father is alive, and, what, just missing?” He wished the question back in the next breath; If he didn’t ask, Mike didn’t need to respond. Dead parents were quite bad enough; Greg didn’t need the uncertainty of ‘maybe still alive somewhere’. And what kind of parent would do that? Who abandoned their child in the midst of tragedy and terror? He let a moment of rage wash over and through him, then pushed it away with a physical effort. 

Mike, oblivious to John’s inner turmoil, explained. “He’s officially a missing person right now. That’s all we know; it wasn’t his body, and nobody has seen him since the fire.” Mike was silent for a moment, then continued, “None of the neighbors saw anything. Greg might be the only witness. He might be the only one who can tell us what happened to Emil.” 

John walked over to check for any sounds at the top of the stairs, then took his phone into the kitchen rather than risk any chance of Greg overhearing. “I guess that explains why they want to talk to him.” He breathed deeply, tipped his head back. “I thought there were meetings and...things...before the actual taking of evidence? Isn’t there some age requirement? He’s _four_.” 

“Yeah, of course, there are certain steps, to see if it’s advisable or necessary. They’ve talked to me, to Mrs Hudson, to his therapist. We’ve all agreed that this is an acceptable route to take. It is seriously the very last resort. They’ve turned up nothing.” 

John forced himself to ask, “How does it work, then?” 

“They’ll set up a video recorder. There will be a police representative present but Dr Chen will be asking the questions. So it’s someone familiar, in familiar surroundings.” 

“I see.” 

“Between you and me, I don’t think anything will come of it. I know he doesn’t talk about what happened; he might not have seen anything, and if he did it might be that he doesn’t actually remember. But we have to try. What I can tell you is that if it’s too much for him, the whole thing stops.” 

John scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, thinking it through. If Greg was repressing, was it fair to push? He’d already been through so much. But would it be better to know, to get the memories out in the open so they could help him process and cope?

“It stops if he’s upset? It’s called off, if it seems too much?”

“Absolutely. Greg’s well-being is the priority here. If fact, we’re required to provide someone for him. A support person. Seeing as Greg is yours in all but the signatures, I’d like that to be you. It’s irregular as hell, ordinarily it’d be Mrs Hudson or Molly, but nothing about this whole situation is normal, and he’s got a good rapport with you. I think you’re the best choice, honestly.” 

John cast another look up the stairs, toward the bedroom sanctuary where Greg slept, and thought about the questions he would have someday, about his parents and what had happened to them. He deserved the answers, even if they weren’t comfortable or straight-forward. “Alright, Mike. Where are we going, and what time should we be there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have almost certainly gotten very many things about how the foster care system, and interviews with child witnesses, and various other such matters, work. Please understand that I hold the people who work with children in high regard and absolutely do not mean any disrespect toward anyone doing such difficult jobs. I've tried to keep the hand waving to a minimum but at bottom, this is an AU, and doesn't really reflect reality.


	5. Chapter 5

John had expected something more visually appealing, given the age of the patients, but the therapist’s office was done up in almost-tan wallpaper and the type of industrial carpeting that would stand up to decades of foot traffic. Greg put his backpack on the floor beneath the coat rack, but kept a tight grip on Fang. The receptionist guided them into a small side-office, on the other side of which was a door. John could see through the narrow window a room that might have been taken for a nursery classroom, albeit a blandly colored one. A tall asian man came through that door, extending a hand toward John. 

“Dr Watson, I’m Dr Chen. I understand Greg will be moving to your home at the end of the week?” 

“John, please. And yes, that’s the plan.” John shook the offered hand, taking in the striped polo shirt with the clinic logo discreetly embroidered on the left side. Less intimidating than a suit, and more washable, too. 

Dr Chen asked Greg, “Have you had a good weekend?”

Greg nodded. 

“I like your dragon. Does he have a name?” 

Greg edged closer to John before mumbling, “His name’s Fang. John gave him to me.” 

“That’s a nice gift.”

“Fang helps me be brave.” Only Greg’s eyes were visible above the dragon’s crest.

“Has John talked to you at all about what’s going to happen today?”

“Nuh-uh.” 

“Do you remember when I said someone might want to take a video, while we talked about your Mum and Dad?” 

“Yes.” Greg directed his answer to the floor, and John laid a gentle hand on his hunched shoulders. 

“Today is the day we’re going to do that. The camera will be by the art table, just like we talked about, and Mr Dimmock -you do remember Mr Dimmock, don’t you?- well, he’ll be in charge of the camera. You don’t have to talk to him at all, and John will come in with us. Do you have any questions about that?”

Greg shook his head and leaned into John’s hand. “I want to use the cray-pas.” 

“Of course. You can bring Fang, too, if you want.” Dr Chen stood and opened the door for Greg to enter the room and spoke for John’s ears only. “I’ll call it off if it gets too much. Or, if you think so, just give me a nod.” 

They started slowly, showing Greg how the video camera worked and letting him pick out his drawing tools. Dr Chen opened the interview with basic questions. 

“How about you start by telling me your whole name?”

“Gregory Ambrose Lestrade.” John could sympathize with his expression of distaste over the middle name.

“Do you prefer to be called Gregory, or Greg?” 

“Greg, please.” 

Dr Chen flicked a glance toward officer Dimmock, who nodded to show that the camera was picking up Greg’s responses. 

“Can you tell me how old you are, Greg?” He picked up the line of questioning, smoothly establishing the official information that would be needed if this interview was played in court.

“I’m four.” 

“And who is here with you?”

“John. Um, Dr Watson.” John nodded approvingly when Greg’s eyes sought his. 

“You’re going to be living with John, is that right?”

“Yes.” 

“Why is that?” 

Greg scooted along the edge of the table, dragging his paper with him. 

“My parents died.” He began painstakingly drawing a spiral.

“Can you tell me your parents’ names?” 

Greg’s face pinched for a moment, then went completely blank. “Emil Lestrade and Geraldine Lestrade.” His voice was uninflected, but he edged closer to John. 

John, watching silently and holding Fang, knew they were getting to the important questions. Was it selfish to hope Greg would remember something, so they’d have some answers, some certainty of what trauma he was carrying? Maybe it would be better if Greg didn’t recall those events until he was older, when they’d helped him establish better coping skills.

Dr Chen was waiting, seeing if more information would be offered. When none was forthcoming he asked “Can you tell me more about them?”

“They died. The house burned up.” 

“Did you see that happen?” 

Greg added a tail and a head to his drawing, turning the spiral into the shell of a snail before saying, soft and fervent, “I can’t remember about that.” He scooted again, offered the drawing to John. 

John reminded himself that they were after information in an apparent murder, and that he couldn’t just scoop Greg up and carry him out of the room, out of the building, away. They had to find out if he knew anything, both for the investigation and for Greg’s eventual peace of mind. 

However, it soon became apparent that there would be no more information. Dr Chen continued to ask open ended questions, and Greg responded with a litany of “I don’t know” or “I can’t remember”, sliding closer to John and speaking more softly on each repetition. Finally, when he was pressed up against John’s thigh, he turned and whispered miserably, “I want to be done now.” That was the signal for Dr Chen to end the session, offer a juice box and some crackers, and gesture for Dimmock to turn off the camera. The police officer waited to slip out until Greg was curled on John’s lap, plush dragon squashed awkwardly between Greg’s face and John’s chest. 

“I want to go home.” Greg’s voice was thick with the threat of tears.

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” John reassured him. “Just as soon as you’re ready.” 

“You smell funny. Like mad, and sad, all mixed up together.” His face screwed up in confusion, trying to explain something that John had seen grown men fail to understand.. 

“I’m maybe a little bit mad and a little bit sad, because I know this was hard. I don’t like it when things happen to upset you. But I’m not mad at you, or because of anything you did.” He offered Greg a cracker.

“I didn’t like those questions. I’m glad that other man went away. I don’t like his stupid video.” Greg bit ferociously into the cracker and scattered crumbs over his shirt-front,then angrily stuffed the entire thing into his mouth before sliding off John’s lap.

John offered him a napkin, then the juice box as he struggled to swallow the oversized mouthful.

Greg glared at the camera while he washed down the cracker. Then he stuck the straw in his mouth and savagely blew the sides of the box back out. When he released the straw,apple juice fountained up to drench his shirt and hands. Greg stared at it for a moment, then said brokenly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” 

John snagged Fang from the path of destruction and reached for a handful of napkins. “I know you didn’t. Let’s clean up the mess, and I think you’ve still got a clean shirt in your backpack.”

Cleaned up and wearing a dry shirt, Greg was silent as they boarded the lift, leaning into John’s leg for the descent. His attention was fixed on the control panel, quietly counting down the numbers as he recognized them. In the lobby he took John’s hand, and together they stepped into the late morning sunshine to catch a bus back to Baker Street and Mrs Hudson.

 

~*~

Mrs Hudson opened the door before John could ring the bell, smiling tentatively. She briefly opened her arms, as if to offer a hug, but dropped them back to her sides when Greg kept his eyes on the pavement. Her eyes were soft, but her voice was matter-of-fact when she said, “It’s about time for your program; how about you say goodbye and go on through. I need to talk to John for a moment.” 

Greg parted from John with a lingering hug before going into the flat. John followed Mrs Hudson into the kitchen and waited until he heard the theme music for Word Wolves before filling her in. “The weekend went well, and I’m sure you’ve heard from Mike that we’re just waiting on the final paperwork.”

“I’m glad. You’ve already done so much; he’s not the same little boy he was a month ago.”

Which made Greg’s current withdrawal more worrying. Had the interview set him back? “Today was hard on him though, and we don’t know anymore than we did before.” 

“Poor thing. Maybe there’s just no more information he can give us. Still, I guess we had to try.”

“I know it’s all part of the process, it’s what I signed on for. I’m glad to be here for him, but I’d rather he didn’t need me. He ought to be at home, with his family, happy and mischievous. Not being questioned about how he lost all that. I don’t like having to put him through things like today.” 

Mrs Hudson tsked, and patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Oh, John, dear. You’re allowed to be glad of him in your life, you know. What happened today isn’t your doing, any more than his parents’ death. And it’s because of you that he’ll have a home now, and a chance at being happy again. There’re plenty who don’t get that much, even with their own kin, or who come to it after they’ve already shut everyone out. Greg’s young enough to still have an open heart.” 

Which, really, was rather the crux of the situation. An open heart was easily wounded, and it was up to John, now, to protect it from further harm. If today had proven anything, it was that the task was far more complicated than he’d supposed. “There aren’t going to be easy answers, are there?”

“No. But I’m certain you’ll find the right ones. Love’s a good guide, and it’s obvious that you love him already.” 

When John just hummed in response, she shook her head tolerantly. 

“You’ll do alright, the pair of you. Go on, now, do something nice for yourself. Today was hard on both of you.”

Mrs Hudson called Greg to come say goodbye, and John tucked his sadness and worry away behind a cheerful face. Once the door was closed behind him, however, the stresses of the day rolled over him with the force of an onrushing train. He managed a couple of halting steps, then collapsed into the chair that sat at the base of the stairs, elbows on knees and face buried in his hands. He knew this wasn’t the time or place for a breakdown; at home, where he was unlikely to be interrupted by Greg or Mrs Hudson, would be better. Safer. A few deep breaths, he told himself. A moment only, to pull the bits of himself together enough to get home.The clacking of the door lock gave him scant warning of Sherlock’s arrival, and he hurriedly straightened up and tried to blank his features. Not quickly enough, though. Sherlock’s surprise at finding John in the hallway quickly gave way to narrowed eyes and an automatic monologue. 

“Shadows under your eyes; not enough sleep last night. Your lip is peeling where you’ve been biting at it; worried, but concealing it. You’re sitting here within half an hour of Greg’s scheduled drop off time, after attending an unusual and unproductive therapy session with him. I take it he was more distressed than Dimmock led me to believe?” 

“He’s bouncing back. And what you just did? That’s amazing. Uncanny, and intrusive as hell, but really amazing.” 

The naked surprise on Sherlock’s face would have been amusing, but for the bitter undercurrent in his voice. “That’s not what people usually say.” 

“Oh? What do people usually say, then?”

The shadow in his eyes belied the nonchalant tone. “Piss off.” 

John snorted, then belatedly processed the rest of what Sherlock had said. “Hang on. I didn’t think you were on this case. So how do you know about the interview today?”

“The unidentified body. Dimmock called me in to find what they’re missing.”

“Since when does a private detective work for the police?” 

“ _Consulting_ Detective,” Sherlock corrected him. “The police call me when they’re out of their depth. So, frequently.” Such smug superiority ought to have been off-putting, but it fit Sherlock nearly as well as his tailored trousers. “I’m going out to the Lestrade house. Well, what’s left of it. I want another look around. You could come along, if it’s convenient.”

Spending time with a friend probably came under the heading of ‘doing something nice’ for himself, as Mrs Hudson had suggested, although visiting a crime scene might not. 

“Aren’t crime scenes and burned out houses dangerous?” 

“Could be. Want to find out?”

John straightened his posture, stood up, and gave a brisk nod. “Absolutely.” 

~*~

Based on Greg’s description of the house having ‘burned up’, John had expected to find extensive damage, but the exterior was largely intact. The front door and windows had been boarded up, the flowers on the front approach withered or trampled into the dirt. In back it was a different story. The surrounding fence was undamaged, but a section of the exterior wall was missing, giving free access to the kitchen. Sherlock led John on a macabre tour, pointing out where the bodies had been found and the multiple hot spots that indicated the use of an accelerant. 

“It looks like most of the damage is in the kitchen; the fire really didn’t get very far.” John scraped his foot over the floor, pushing aside cinders and ash. The lino was ashey and grey where it had melted, the bubbled surface revealing no hint of its former coloring. 

“No. But the bodies were badly burnt. Which suggests that they were in the heart of the flames.”

John picked his way into the sitting room. He scanned the shattered windows, the blackened drapery rods. The whole place reeked of smoke and wet, and John wondered if the owner would attempt repairs, or just tear everything down and start over. Sherlock was inspecting the baseboards, but John was trying to imagine the family who had lived here before being torn apart in an act of horrific violence. Had Emil Lestrade watched sports or crime dramas? Had the Christmas tree been displayed in front of the windows, or tucked into a corner to protect it from a curious toddler? Greg being put in care suggested that there hadn’t been extended family, but had the three of them blown out candles on a sticky-sweet first birthday cake? 

“Has the man’s body been identified?” He asked. 

“No. And there’s nothing I haven't already seen. The stairs are safe enough; let’s check the upper level.” 

Sherlock spared the smaller bedroom a bare glance, then turned into the master bedroom across the hall. John went in, searching for anything that might help him know Greg better.. John pulled out his mobile, using the flashlight app to supplement the late afternoon sunshine filtering through the soot-stained windowpane.. Faint outlines showed where furniture and rugs would have been; wardrobe next to the door, judging by the size and shape, bed against the left wall. Smaller rectangles, bookcases maybe, under the window. Maybe Greg had seen whoever the other man was when he approached the house? John reached to open the filthy window and see what Greg’s view had been. The lock was hopelessly warped, and the frame juddered and stuck against the greasy soot stains, but he managed to get it most of the way up. A garden shed that was tucked into the corner between the house and a high fence that separated this property from the neighbors. Just next to the roof of the shed, something small and white fluttered in the light breeze. 

“Sherlock!” 

The other man leaned into the room. “You’ve found something. What is it?” 

John pointed out the window. “Might not be anything, but why would a child’s sock be caught on the fence?”

Sherlock stuck his head out. “It’s not too much of a drop...yes, exactly!” He popped back into the bedroom, grinning delightedly. John had seen such looks before, on the faces of classmates when they successfully pieced together a hypothetical diagnoses. Sherlock, already attractive, became incandescent with the joy of discovery. “Well done, John! Young child, asleep in his room.” Sherlock’s hands flashed through the air, describing the scene. “He hears a disturbance downstairs. What does he do?” 

“Either hides, or goes downstairs. Knowing Greg, my bet is he goes downstairs.” 

“Yes. And he sees something, something that frightens him. He runs back up to his bedroom, hides, maybe in the wardrobe or under the bed. There are noises in the kitchen.”

“The fire being set.”

“Yes. The smoke detector goes off. He knows that means he should get out of the house, but he can’t go back downstairs. So.” 

Sherlock settled himself against the sill and swung his legs over the edge, then eased his way through and dropped, landing on the roof in three point crouch that put John in mind of superhero posters. He wondered if Sherlock was a student of parkour, or just possessed of unnatural agility and self-confidence. 

“There’s no back fence in the next garden. I’m certain this is how he got away. The question is-” Sherlock vaulted over the edge. John anticipated a pained shout, but none came. His next glimpse of the detective was in the alley, looking up to the window. “Come on, John!”

By the time John had closed the window and let himself out through the gate, Sherlock was at the house across the alley, begging assistance from the home owner. She was willing, even eager, to help, and opened the garage from the inside. “You’re the one who found the poor little mite, aren’t you? Where is the lad now, do you know?” 

“He’s gone into care.” John explained shortly, when Sherlock ignored the question. 

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” was her cryptic opinion. In response to John’s querying look, she said, “I know they loved that boy fierce, but they were a bit old-fashioned in their ways. Mr Lestrade liked things just so. Strict, but at least he was predictable.” 

“Mrs Lestrade wasn’t?” 

“She’d a temper. Used to hear her yelling, sometimes crashing like she’d thrown a plate maybe. Not bad, you know, never enough so’s anyone called the police or anything.” 

Just bad enough to make them wonder if they should, before deciding not to get involved. John didn’t risk his voice betraying him, just nodded and turned away. 

Sherlock rose from his crouch next to the workbench, dusted his hands absently and went to peer out the window in the overhead door. He tried it from various positions, bending his knees to approximate Greg’s height. John managed to avoid stealing more than a quick glance at how this made his trousers cling to his backside. Nobody so slender should have such a lush bottom. 

“What do you see, John? No, crouch down. Remember, you’re four, standing on tiptoe.” 

“Tiptoe wouldn’t be enough. He’d have to stand on something.” He looked around, saw a bucket in the corner. “That, maybe?”

“It was lying in front of the door when I came home. I had to get out of the car to move it,” confirmed the woman. 

John looked out the window again. He could see the burned out kitchen, the rhododendrons along the back of the garden Greg had escaped through. “Yes. It makes sense. I wonder what he saw?” 

They thanked the woman for her help, and headed back out to the alley. Sherlock’s long legs ate up the distance, and John followed him back to the Lestrade home. “What was used to set the fire?”

“Petrol, probably,” Sherlock answered, pointing at the garden shed. “Check for a lawn mower.” 

John expected the interior to be as empty as the rest of the house, but it seemed the landlord had limited his efforts to the damaged part of the property. There was a lawn mower, neatly stored next to a rack with other tools. And on the floor next to it, a pair of suitcases. 

The first case case yielded a selection of women’s clothing, while the second had been packed with clothing for a boy and a man. An outside pocket held an envelope with train tickets to Scotland. Sherlock reached over his shoulder and plucked the tickets out of his grasp, and John narrowly restrained his instinctive territorial defense. “God. It’s like you _want_ me to punch you.” 

“I knew your reflexes were equal to the challenge. And if they hadn’t been, mine are. I’d have ducked.” He tapped the tickets thoughtfully against one hand. “These are dated for the night of the fire.” 

John began repacking the shared case, while Sherlock rifled through the woman’s. “Sherlock, why would Greg run to another house, instead of hiding in the shed? It’s closer, and he wouldn’t have to go over the fence.”

“Trying to get help, maybe. The bigger question is why Geraldine didn’t pack her own case.” 

“Why do you say that?”

He pointed to the neat piles he’d made. “Change of clothes. Nighty. Make-up case, fairly standard contents. Enough knickers for several days. But no spare bras, not even a sports one to go with the exercise clothes and running shoes. Obviously someone else packed for her.” 

John looked again at the suitcase. Sherlock was right, but before he could say anything in acknowledgement of that, Sherlock waved imperiously at him.

“Quiet. I’m thinking.”

With a shake of his head, John stepped back outside and began to wander along the edge of the property. Would Greg want to see this house, someday? Come back to the neighborhood that had been his home? Were there playmates here, wondering what had happened to their friend? A flash of blue, deep in the shrubbery, caught his eye, and he carefully parted the branches for a closer look. A mobile rested against the base of the plant. Sherlock was emerging from the shed, and John waved him over.

“There’s a phone in this bush.” Again he pulled aside the leafy branches to expose the bright blue case. 

“Don’t touch it! There might be-”

“Fingerprints, yeah, I know. Not an idiot.” 

“Perhaps you’d be good enough to go back to Mrs Farnham, and ask if she has a new paper envelope?” Sherlock was drawing on a pair of latex gloves he’d pulled from his pocket. “A lunch sack will do, but it needs to be paper, and new.”

“Actually, I knew that, too. Watched a fair bit of true-crime stuff when I was in hospital.” He hurried across to the neighbor’s house and found her very willing to help, in exchange for a bit of gossip about ‘finding something the police might want’ in the shrubbery.

Envelope acquired, Sherlock picked the phone up with minimal touches. “There may be recoverable information.” He passed the envelope to John and pulled out his own mobile. John was unsurprised that Sherlock had the investigating officer’s direct line on speed dial. “Inspector Dimmock? This is Sherlock Holmes. I’m at the Lestrade house, and something has come to light that I think you’ll want. Shall I bring it round the yard, or would you like to pick it up?”


	6. Chapter 6

A toy narrowboat, three picture books, and a child-sized duffle full of clothes. Not so very much in comparison to other four-year-olds, but an embarrassment of riches when compared to the stories John had heard of other foster children, with all their worldly belongings stuffed into a plastic shopping sack. Mrs Hudson carried the bag and books, handing off a plate of pinwheel biscuits to John, while Greg clutched the narrowboat in his short arms.

“There’s space on the bookshelf for your boat, if you want to keep it downstairs.” John pointed to the shelf he’d cleared. “It’s up to you, of course. If you’d rather keep it in your room, that’s okay too.” First shift often triggered territorial urges, something John wasn’t entirely convinced was the result of puberty. There were blogs that claimed were children needed to have private bedrooms, inviolate and acknowledged as theirs, where they could be safe and alone. Of course, there were an equal number of websites that suggested this practice was the root cause of any number of anti-social behaviors, from drug use to domestic violence. John came down on the side of practicality; there was space enough for Greg to have his own room, and age-appropriate privacy, but he hoped their bond would become strong enough for Greg to feel the entire house was theirs together. 

“This is good.” Greg settled the boat onto the empty shelf and arranged the otters and accessories around it in a tidy, if somewhat childish, display of Life on the Canal. “I named my boat _Sparrow_.” 

“That’s a good name.” John opened the door to the garden. “I thought we might have tea out here, before Mrs Hudson has to go.” Hopefully this would ease the transition. “Greg, do you want to show Mrs Hudson the balcony, while I get the tea?” 

He put the treats on a tray, added the teapot and cups, and some lemonade. Mrs Hudson and Greg were coming back to the small patio when he came out, and they all settled down at the table. Greg filled John in on what they’d seen on the canal, chattering about canoes and kayaks in between bites, then hopped down and ran to get his football. 

Mrs Hudson looked approvingly at the garden. “It’s a nice place, John. I suppose you bought it before you joined the Army?” 

“Actually, it belonged to my sister. She died while I was overseas, it came to me, and I never got around to selling. Good thing, as it happens.” He fielded a wild kick, sending the ball flying back across the grass.

“It’s perfect for the two of you.” She paused, giving him a significant look. “I’d never meddle, of course, but do you think you’ll be making the arrangement permanent? I’d be happy to write recommendations if you need them.” 

John hid his amusement behind a sip of tea. Not meddling, no, just inquiring innocently about his intentions. “I won’t say I haven’t thought about it. Can’t apply until he’s lived with me for a full year, though.” Emil Lestrade’s continued survival and unknown whereabouts were complicating factors, but this wasn’t the time to go into that.

“Well, that’s good, then. I’ve decided he’ll be my last. I’ll miss having a youngster about, no question, but I’m a bit old to be keeping up with them. They need parents, not grandparents.” 

“There’s room for both. I told Greg we might have you ‘round for supper, now and then.” 

“I’ll be happy to come visit. And of course, you’ll call me if he needs minding while you work.” A blinding smile underscored her words. “Now, I think it’s time I let you two settle in.” 

The tray was carried in, goodbyes were said, and then John and Greg were officially on their own, and having their first check-in. Which, John admitted, was a terrible thing to call it, but ‘family meeting’ conveyed the wrong tone, and nothing else had come to mind. He supposed they’d sort it as they went along. The kitchen table was where the important conversations had always happened in his own childhood, being more formal than lounging on the sofa, but still in the heart of the home. John put down a notebook and some felt tip pens in different colors. Greg climbed onto his chair, and John made a mental note to acquire a booster seat. 

“Here’s the deal. We’re a team, now. And the best way to be a team is to both be following the same rules. So we’re going to make a few together, and write them down.”

Greg was staring, wide eyed. “I get to make rules for you?”

“We both get to make rules, for both of us. Here’s the first one: we need to work together to keep things tidy and on track. I can’t throw the dish towel over the chair-” he pointed to Greg’s seat, where the towel was draped- “and you can’t leave your toys out. Agreed?” 

The answer was a nod, and John flipped open the notebook to write it down after letting Greg pick which colored pen he’d use. He carefully wrote out _Work Together_ in block letters. 

“Your turn. What do you suggest?”

“No cauliflower.” 

“That’s a good idea. But if we have to write down every single food we don’t like, it could be a long list,” John pointed out. “Are you saying there are some foods you don’t want to eat, and you want me to respect that?”

“Yeah. No yucky stuff?” 

“How about ‘it’s okay to say no thank you after you try food’. Everyone has things they don’t like, and that’s fine, but it’s not fair to the person cooking if you don’t even try it.” 

Greg sighed, but assented. “Okay.” 

In this fashion, they determined basic rules around housekeeping, meals, and communication. Finally, when Greg had begun to fidget in his seat, John asked if he had anything else to add before they posted the list. 

Greg stopped squirming, hunched his shoulders and stared at the table in front of him. There was a heavy silence for a long moment, before he risked a glance at John, then looked back down and whispered, “No spanking.” 

John took a breath, sitting back in his chair and trying to consider this objectively. Knee-jerk protectiveness wasn’t going to help, no matter what had prompted the request. Spanking was a grey area, controversial but not criminal, and likely useful in specific cases. His own mother had occasionally delivered a pop to the bum to get his attention and underscore her verbal disappointment. Had it been more than that in Greg’s case? The neighbor had said that Geraldine had a temper, and Emil had been described as ‘strict’, but the files hadn’t said anything to indicate he’d been abused. Something to mention at the next therapy session, but in the meantime Greg needed reassurance that John was safe and trustworthy.

“Greg. Look at me, please?” He waited until a wary gaze met his. “I will never hit you. I’m not promising not to get angry, but I will never, ever, hit you. What color should I use?” He offered the pens, and wrote the rule in Greg’s selection of bold orange. 

_John will never, ever, hit Greg._

He laid the list on the table, and carefully read it out, running an index finger under the critically important last item. “I think it’s a good list. Shake on it?” 

They solemnly clasped hands, and John centered the poster on the refrigerator with a magnet on each corner. A place of significance, but not permanence; this would be an ongoing conversation. “How about we get your clothes put away, and make some supper?” 

~*~

 

The next day found them at Tesco, picking up bubble bath and groceries. John had noted down a few meal ideas in his moleskine and was working with Greg to build a menu plan for the next several days.

“Jacket potatoes?” They could be put in the slow cooker and left to themselves, and if he baked some extras they could be fried for breakfast. 

“Yeah, those are good. I like beans and cheese in.” 

John handed him the potatoes to put in the cart. He was carefully selecting some apples when a familiar voice called out, “Captain Watson?” 

He turned, already looking up; Franklin Dempsey was tall, and broad, and still had the reddest hair John had ever seen. “Frank. What’re you doing in London? I thought you were going to re-up?” 

“I thought so too, but my Joanie’s ready to have me home. Guess I’m ready to be home. Time to do the family thing.” His smile was honest, even with the shadows that lurked behind his eyes. John knew those shadows, had seen them in his own face. “You look well, Watson, really well. And who’s this?” 

Greg was half hidden where he clung to John’s leg, peering hesitantly up at the other man. John casually wrapped an arm about his shoulders. “This is Greg. Greg, Mr Dempsey is one of my friends from when I was in the army.” 

Frank thrust out a hand for Greg to shake. “Stepson? Nephew? Thought it was just you and Harry, though.” 

Not the most subtle way of asking what John was doing with a child, but of course Frank knew John was a bachelor, and that Greg couldn’t be his. He was too old, for one thing. John realized he’d never even considered how to introduce their relationship. Would saying Greg was a foster imply that the relationship was somehow less? How could he have neglected to consider something so important? He began a faltering explanation. “Not a nephew, no. His mother died a while back, so-”

“Damn, Watson. I’m sorry. Didn’t know you’d married.”

“No! No, no, she wasn’t my wife. Both of his parents were killed in an accident. So now he lives with me. I’m a foster provider.” Could it get any more awkward? He really needed to work out what he was going to say, next time this happened. Maybe Mike could offer some advice. But now Greg was tugging on his sleeve, urgency written on his face. 

“John. I need the loo.” 

Oh, thank god. “Right. Frank, if you’ll excuse us. It’s good to see you.” Abandoning their trolley, John hustled Greg to the toilet. Business attended to, they finished their shopping and caught the bus home. 

They put the groceries away together, John shaking his head when he realized he’d forgotten to look for a booster seat for the kitchen. Well, Greg could sit on some stacked books or something. Or they could eat at the coffee table. Just once wasn’t establishing a precedent. 

“John?” 

“Yeah? What’s up, kiddo?” 

“Can we go look for boats?” 

“Absolutely. I’ll make some tea, and you can have some juice if you’d like.” The towpath was quieter at this time of day, just a few joggers, but the water buses would be running. They stood together on the balcony, John sipping his tea and Greg wondering if the Starling might ever go past. It was quiet, the day edging toward evening, and John thought this could become a comfortable habit, reconnecting before the busyness of supper and baths, and putting away toys. 

~*~

In this way, they began to grow into a routine that centered around their neighborhood and Greg’s fascination with the canal. In the mornings, after they’d tidied up the kitchen, they walked to the tow path via a set of street-side stairs. The first couple times Greg held tightly to John’s hand as they passed people and shops, but soon he was ranging ahead when the sidewalk was clear, scampering back to tell John about a funny dog, a lady with snake shoes, or a shop window being changed out. 

One of the buildings several blocks down was undergoing repairs, and the work equipment was endlessly fascinating. “Why’d they put a fence around it?” Greg was looking at the barricade around the scaffolding. 

“To keep people from climbing it.” 

“I’m gonna be a construction guy. Then I can climb all the time. And wear an orange vest and a walkie-talkie and everything.” 

“What will you build?” 

“Great big buildings. Maybe bridges.” 

“I bet you’d be good at it, too.” 

“You say that every time!” Greg accused with an infectious grin. 

John shrugged. After the first two suggested grown-up jobs, he’d decided to stick with that response. He believed in Greg, believed that he was clever enough to be good at whatever he eventually decided to do, and wanted the boy to know that. “I mean it every time, too.” 

As comfortable as they were becoming, the incident at Tesco was never far from his mind, and John spent several hours trying to determine what he and Greg should call each other when meeting other people. At home, they were simply John and Greg, or sometimes ‘kiddo’. Finally, he e-mailed Mike. He carefully explained what had happened, detailed the different ideas he’d come up with and the reasons for deciding each one was less than ideal, and asked Mike for recommendations. In response to this multi-paragraph message, he got a five word answer. 

_Why not just ask him?_

Well, that should have been obvious, really. Several books and websites had suggested a quiet after lunch activity for children who no longer needed an afternoon nap, which seemed like a good time to bring it up. 

“What should we do today, kiddo?”

“Coloring! I want whales.” 

Coloring sheets were free off the internet, and John tried to keep a variety on hand. Greg found the ones he wanted and they sat at the kitchen table, making pink dolphins and orange seaweed. 

“I wanted to ask you something,” John casually mentioned.

“Okay.” Greg began filling in an octopus. 

Keeping his voice casual, John asked, “Do you remember the day at Tesco, when we ran into Mr Dempsey?” 

“He was a soldier with you. He thought you were my dad.” 

Should he have brought this up sooner? Had Greg been silently fretting about this, waiting for John to broach the subject? “That’s right. Part of the reason he was confused, I think, is because I didn’t do a very good job explaining. I’m really glad we’re a team, but I wasn’t sure what you’d want me to call you.” 

Greg tilted his head, eyeballing his picture. “Can I have the brown, please? I need to do behind my rocktopus.” His eyes lit up, and he giggled merrily while repeating his new word. “Rocktopus! Rocktopus! ROOOOCK TOOO PUUUUUS!” 

John giggled too, and lay one hand flat on the table, wriggling his fingers to suggest tentacles. Greg made a wild grab for it, and was saved from toppling out of his chair only by catching hold of John’s wrist. 

“I’m a guy who studies the ocean, and I caught a rocktopus.” He examined his prize, humming softly and scribbling notes on the back of his picture. 

“What are you writing down?”

“Everything I ‘bserve about it. Writing it down means it’s science. Otherwise it’s just messing about. Sherlock said so.” He poked at John’s hand a bit more, then gently released it to the table. “Why can’t you just call me your Greg, and I’ll say you’re my Dad? You’re like a dad. Not like my real dad; he didn’t like being silly. But like a new dad.” 

John tried for matter-of-fact and answered, “That’s what we’ll do, then.” Greg didn’t seem to notice the thickening of John’s voice, and just nodded before turning back to his art. 

That night, after Greg was asleep, John sent a much shorter e-mail to Stamford. 

_I’m to call him my Greg, and he’ll call me his Dad._

~*~

It was the sixth night that John, coming upstairs to his own bedroom, heard furtive sniffles and a shuddering, hitching sob. He paused in the doorway, called “Greg? I’m coming in, kiddo.” 

The blankets twitched, and a tearful face appeared from beneath them. “Okay.” 

John settled on the bed, keeping his body open and welcoming but not forcing contact. Greg stared at him for a long moment, then reached up with both arms for a hug, letting John pull him onto his lap. 

“You seem pretty sad.”

“Yeah.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

Greg was silent for a long moment; only the tension in his small body betrayed his wakefulness. Finally, he said, “‘member the guitar on _Word Wolves_ today? And how Grandpa played a song for Melly?” 

“Because it was her birthday, and Growler had gone off with his friends.” 

“Daddy had a guitar. Not the electric kind; just a nice quiet one. So you could hear the voices and the words. When I had my birthday, Daddy and Mummy sang to me.” He started to cry softly, clinging to John’s shirt.

John hugged him, and rubbed his back, and let him cry. No shushing, no soothing nonsense words. No distraction. That would have been easier, certainly, than feeling the small body molding to his, hot tears soaking his cotton top. But the easy response wasn’t respectful, and John wasn’t going to deny Greg this genuine expression of his grief. Someday, he hoped, this memory wouldn’t be a painful one, but the birthday wasn’t yet four months past; the loss of his parents only barely two. Eventually, the tears ran their course and Greg quieted, still clutching a fistful of John’s pyjama top. 

“Do you play the guitar?” He whispered. 

“No. But if you’d like to learn, someday, we can find someone to teach you.” 

“I thought maybe you could play for me.” 

“I could sing.” 

“Okay.” 

John ran a hand over Greg’s hair, and began to sing the lullaby his Gran had comforted him with, after his parents’ deaths. His voice was a bit rough for such a gentle tune, and he stumbled a bit going from low note to high, but that didn’t seem to matter. By the second repeat, Greg was yawning, and John helped him back under the covers, tucking him in and sitting with him, singing, until he’d fallen asleep. When Greg’s breathing had evened out, John slipped downstairs for a cuppa and some thinking. Tonight had highlighted and solidified a shadowy uncertainty that had been dogging his heels for several days. Parenting was more exhausting than he’d anticipated. Of course the websites, the seminars, all the parenting books and advice columns, had mentioned it. But the sheer mental fatigue had only been hinted at. Constantly assessing his responses, determining how best to guide Greg’s emerging self in the context of this new life, and making those choices at the rapid pace of childhood, left him in awe of the grandmother who had raised him and Harry. Granted, they’d been older than Greg, more self-sufficient in the day-to-day. And the other women of the neighborhood had taken a hand, too, the proverbial village stepping up to the job. 

But John had a village, too, of sorts. And they might be able to offer some insights or, failing that, at least some familiar songs that might be more comforting that his Gran’s old lullaby. A quick e-mail wouldn’t delay his own bedtime much longer, and he’d sleep better knowing he’d taken steps to be better prepared. Because the next time Greg found himself struggling to cope, an old cradle song might not be enough.


	7. Chapter 7

“Can we go to the Lego store? I like the Lego store.” 

John had realized, while getting Greg ready for bed a few days before, that Greg’s pyjamas were uncomfortably small. After a bit of thought, he’d realized that new trainers were probably in order as well, and socks. And there was that shirt Greg had spilled mustard on, that should probably be replaced, and the jeans with a hole in the knee. M&S seemed the most likely place to have everything they needed, so John had rented a zipcar and mounted an expedition to Westfield Mall. 

“Lego, Lego, Lego, Lego, Lego STORE!” Wild with excitement, Greg drummed his heels in time with the chant.

“Probably. It depends,” John answered, trying to listen to Greg and navigate the blind-side mayhem of the car-park. “We have to be back by two.” There was a home-visit scheduled for that afternoon. Surely filling out Greg’s wardrobe wouldn’t take long. Probably even have time for ice cream after. He parked, locked up, unlocked and retrieved his mobile, locked up again. They were on the wrong side of the shopping centre, but the walk would be good for both of them. Except, of course, that Greg wanted to stop and look at the shop windows, or jump over the differently colored squares on the floor. Maybe four wasn’t too old for a buggy. Just turned four. Just turned four and on a limited time-table.

”Greg. Come on, we don’t have time to stop for everything.”

“But look at that guy’s hair!”

“Yes. It’s very...colorful. Let’s do this: You count how many buggies you see, and I’ll count how many children are walking.” 

Once they finally arrived at their destination, the directory indicated that they were on the wrong floor, and the lift was on the other end of the store. But there was an escalator, John could see it from where they stood, that would take them directly to the children’s section. 

“Alright, kiddo, up one level.” Greg slowed, and stared apprehensively at the moving staircase. 

“It’s easy. Look, let’s watch. See? Just walk up, step onto the stair, and up you go. I’ll hold your hand the whole time.” John moved confidently forward, stopped at the beginning and counted Greg on. “One, two, three, step. Well done!” As the top came into view, with the stairs slowly collapsing and sliding into the grooved plate, Greg gasped and began trying to scramble up John’s side. 

“It’s gonna eat my feet!” 

There wasn’t time to negotiate or discuss, wasn’t time to switch sides so he was grabbing Greg with his good arm. John bent, grabbed, and determinedly swung Greg over the metal teeth. “Alright?” He made a mental note to take the lift back down, checked the time on his phone, and scratched ice cream off the agenda. Greg had settled down and was looking around at the racks of jeans and tables full of folded tee shirts. “John! They have Word Wolves shirts!” 

“Shoes first, kiddo.” 

Getting him fitted was another eye-opener; first there was a hole in his sock, not that John was bothered by that, at least not until Greg stuck three toes through and wiggled them, thus destroying the sock completely. Then the shoes he was currently wearing, new when he’d moved in with Mrs Hudson, were two sizes too small. He didn’t _seem_ to have grown that much. John ran a hand over the back of his neck while he considered.

“Well, feet always go first, don’t they?” The attendant, Paul according to his name badge, spoke knowledgeably. “Same way with all five of mine. Which shoes can I bring you?”

“The green trainers for sure.” Greg had been adamant about that. “Don’t think he’ll be needing anything really dressy, but maybe a nice plain pair of...those, there?” He pointed to a dark grey shoe with a higher cut. 

Greg brought it over, running his fingers over the velvety suede. “These are good.” Then his eye was caught by the slippers displayed against the wall, and he was off.

The attendant smiled indulgently. “Has a lot of energy, your boy. I’ll fetch those boxes.” 

The trainers weren’t available in Greg’s size, which meant a lengthy negotiation about how the orange detailing wasn’t really going to make anybody run faster. They eventually settled on the desert boots, plain black trainers, and a pair of slipper boots with polar bears on. John checked the time; how was it already almost one o’clock? No Lego store, either. Twenty minutes to finish, ten to the car, twenty to drive home. “Greg. We still need to get pyjamas. Let’s go.” 

The sleepwear was located, of course, on the other side of the department, which meant walking past the tee-shirts again. “Word Wolves, John! And it’s my favorite colour. John. John. John! Word Wolves!” 

“You’ve got enough shirts, but maybe they have pyjamas.” 

They did not. Greg checked every shelf and rack, most of them more than once. Finally John asked an attendant. 

“Sold out. Can’t keep ‘em in stock. But there are some tee-shirts that just came in.”

John mentally counted to ten. “Fine, yes, we’ll get a tee-shirt. Pyjamas first, though. Greg, you have five minutes. Pick two.” They’d looked at every offering already, five minutes had to be enough. 

“The polar bears, to match my slippers. And the penguins.” 

“The penguins only come in a set of three. Pick something else.” 

“NO. You SAID pick two, and I DID. Polar bears and penguins.” 

Before John could come to grips with the fact that Greg was actually stomping his foot and raising his voice, he’d sat down on the floor, crossed his arms, and huffed angrily through his nose. “You wouldn’t let me have the green shoes, and I was nice about that. Now you have to do something nice back. That’s called being fair.” 

“What you’re doing right now isn’t.” 

“I want the polar bears and the penguins.” 

“Polar bears and one other, or just the penguins.” 

“Polar bears and penguins.” 

“Then no tee-shirt.” 

He winced when he heard the words leave his mouth. Hadn’t he been taught not to escalate a confrontation? Sure enough, Greg wailed, threw himself on the floor, and began kicking and screaming his frustration. John pursed his lips, nodded once, and scooped the flailing boy into his arms. Greg had been coping admirably with the changes in his life, but even adults had limits. A tantrum had probably been inevitable; It was the public nature of his breakdown that was distressing. John’s shoulder was already protesting the juggling of a screaming child and the bag of shoes, but he needed to get Greg out of the shop as quickly as he could. The situation was already unpleasant; adding in a temper induced shift would be disasterous. 

By the time they’d descended to the ground floor and left the shop to cross the mall, Greg’s wails had turned to self-pitying sniffles, but this reprieve lasted only until John walked past the Lego shop without slowing down. He steadfastly ignored the critical stares from other shoppers, refused to so much as dignify their approbation by acknowledging it, just shifted to keep everything balanced and strode onward. Greg began to wind down as they approached the car, his unhappiness expressed through passive non-cooperation rather than active resistance. John threaded small arms through the car seat straps and buckled everything securely. He set Fang on Greg’s lap, smiling grimly when one sweaty hand clenched around a plush wing, and shut the door. The dashboard clock flashed on when he turned over the engine: five minutes to two. Resisting the urge toward profanity, he dug out his mobile and hit the speed-dial.

“Mike? Yeah, it’s John. I think we need to reschedule; we got hung up at the shops, and Greg’s pretty worn out.” Frustration bled through in his voice, and Greg shrilled about how not-worn-out he was from the backseat.

“I don’t mind waiting.” Stamford sounded remarkably unruffled. “I’m already at your place; how far away are you?” 

So they weren’t going to reschedule. Fine. Great. Fantastic. “It’s a good twenty minutes. There’s a coffee shop a couple blocks over from the house.”

“I know the one. I’ll meet you here in half an hour, then.”

John disconnected and dropped the phone onto the passenger seat. He glanced over the headrest and caught Greg’s glare a moment before Fang was hurled into the front seat. Time to go home. 

Halfway there, Greg stopped sniffling. John turned on the radio, found something soothing and jazzy, and reached back to give the boy’s knee a quick squeeze. Greg sighed in response, but also kicked the back of the passenger seat. Not yet ready to talk, then. Piano gave way to guitar on the radio, traffic continued flowing more or less smoothly, and they arrived at the parking space with minutes to spare. John made sure the required amount of petrol was on board, and opened the door. “Come on, you can carry the shopping bag.” Hefting the booster seat, he handed over the shoes and took Greg’s free hand in his for the two block walk. 

There was just enough time to make tea for himself and a snack for Greg before he had to answer the door to admit Stamford. “We’re in the sitting room. Come on through.” 

Mike’s brow creased when he took in Greg’s tear stained face and what John was sure was his own rather frazzled appearance

“I take it shopping didn’t go well?” 

John grunted his agreement and allowed Mike to turn to the small talk of sport and weather, giving them a few moments to recover, and could only be grateful that his friend declined to comment when Greg finished his snack and climbed into John’s lap. He curled tightly around himself, tucking his head under John’s chin. 

“‘m sorry I was bad. I shouldn’t have gotten angry.”

John tried to put the visiting case manager out of his mind, tried desperately not to make an even bigger hash of the situation. “It’s not bad to feel angry. You are absolutely allowed to feel angry, or disappointed, or frustrated. It’s scary, sometimes, to have so many big feelings. There are better ways to handle them though, and we’ll have a talk about that after supper. Do you want to go play while I talk with Mike?” 

Greg shot Mike a wary look, then nodded and slid off John’s lap. He took the box of wooden blocks out to the garden, and began assembling a roadway for a couple of the diecast cars that had migrated from their own basket. 

“The blocks are new,” Stamford noted. 

John shrugged. “Couple websites said they’d be good for him, and I found a used set.” He caught himself rubbing his hands over his thighs and forced them to stillness.

“Things sounded a bit stressful, earlier.” Mike probed.

John took a deep breath, held it, and let it trickle back out before he trusted himself to answer. “Full blown tantrum in the middle of M&S. I had to carry him across the mall, screaming nearly the whole way. Him, not me,” he added, trying to diffuse the tension.

Mike made a sympathetic grimace and said, “Sounds like the honeymoon’s over.”

“Yeah. I knew tantrums would probably come into play, but knowing and experiencing...two different things, right? He was all kinds of furious. It was...disconcerting, seeing him so unhappy. Knowing I couldn’t help him, because I was the main thing that set him off. He’s sorry to have gotten upset; for my part, I’m sorry I didn’t notice he was getting overwhelmed. Probably hungry, too. I shouldn’t have let it get that bad.” 

“Hmmm. The tipping point isn’t always easy to predict. You said it yourself just now; it’s scary having so many feelings at once. It’s a lot to process.” Mike flipped open his folder and jotted something down, flipping the page too quickly for John to make it out. “How’s your support network? Who do you have to help when you’ve got an appointment, or just need a break?” 

“Mrs Hudson takes Greg when I have physio, and Sherlock’s on board as backup. I usually take a walk during his solo therapy sessions, clear my head out a bit. I know that’s not really enough, but it’s early days yet. And I’ve got my eye on a couple different schools. One is walking distance, so that’d be an opportunity to meet families that live nearby.”

More notes, and Mike looked up and met John’s eyes. “You think he’s ready for that?”

“I think he will be, hopefully in time to start in September.” He tried to keep his voice level, just reporting the facts, but the pride leaked in. “He’s clever, Mike. He really needs to be in school. And aside from today, he’s been adjusting well.”

“Make sure you mention it to Dr Chen, then. He might have some insights.” He flipped a couple more pages and signed off on one. “You’re good. Keep working on your social contacts. Greg’s turn.” He went out to the garden, settled into the grass with his papers, and asked if he could join Greg at his play. John stood watchfully in the doorway, eyes on Greg’s body language. Was this going to be another upset?

Apparently not. Greg finished driving his cars off a makeshift bridge and nodded. From the number of explosive sound effects, it was going to be a challenging day for the emergency services. At least it wasn’t just him. Inappropriate, taking relief in someone elses bad day. And more than a little ridiculous, given that the someone else was an imaginary ambulance driver. Fodder for his memoirs, maybe, but for now it was time to get some housework done. The sliding door was covered in fingermarks, and pulling it closed for washing meant he was visible but unable to listen in or coach answers. Rubbing a duster over the furniture put him mind of rainy afternoons, helping his mother and, in later years, his grandmother, with the tasks of family life. Such stalwart women, standing firm and true and loving, their enormity in his memory disproportionate to the short time he’d had them. He hoped he was living up to their example.

It was that thought that had him stopping in his tracks, sinking onto the couch and staring around his sitting room. Their sitting room, now, his and Greg’s, and even if he was still second-guessing himself much of the time, thinking of this home and this life as ‘theirs’ was as autonomic as breathing. “Oh my god. I’m a parent.”

Mike stepped through the door, startling John out of his introspection. His attention was turned back to the garden, waving a farewell to Greg, and John breathed a sigh of relief that he’d not heard John’s epiphany. It wasn’t something he wanted to talk about right now. Maybe not ever.

“Everything looks to be in order here.” Mike was reading off a checklist. “Greg’s making all his appointments and is settling in here really well. You two are building a good, strong relationship; today sounds like typical four year-old behavior, which is actually a good sign.” 

He briskly initialed various line items, and made a quick note. “I’ve got a list of schools back at the office; places that we’ve worked with before. It can streamline things if they’re familiar with the process, but of course the final decision really is yours. I’ll e-mail it, if that’s okay?” 

“Yeah. Um, fine. Good.” 

“Right then. I’ll leave you to it. Here’s hoping the rest of your day goes better.” 

John saw Mike out, and took his laptop onto the patio to watch Greg play. He could probably find Word Wolves pyjamas online.


	8. Chapter 8

John flipped on the radio and sank onto the couch, straddling the filled basket. It was becoming part of the routine, trying to catch the headlines before their afternoon canal watch. In future, John supposed this would be the homework hour, but for now it gave Greg some structured free time. Today he’d outlined a winding pathway with the wooden blocks and was taking his narrowboat up and down an imaginary canal, side-eyeing the growing pile of socks from John’s basket. John had assigned Greg the task of pairing them up, before realizing that the four-year-old method involved spreading the socks over the furniture and carrying them, one at a time, around the room in search of their lost friend. “You could start the socks now, if you wanted. Get it done faster that way.”

“Nah. I’ll wait ‘till you find them all.” 

This, too, was part of the game, and John mostly asked for form’s sake. He shook his head, chuckling, until he caught the words ‘construction accident’ and ‘taken to St Francis medical center’. The peace of home slipped away and he fished his mobile out of the basket. None too soon: it rang almost before he could set it down, and he was already racing through the logistics as he answered it. Mrs Hudson was away; it’d have to be Sherlock. He assured the caller that he’d be there as soon as he could, hung up, and put in a call of his own.

“Sherlock, it’s John Watson. Listen, I’ve been called in to St Francis; they’ve got a bad case, and Mrs Hudson-”

“Is visiting her sister, yes. St Francis is the other direction; Faster if I come to yours.” 

John agreed, grateful that he didn’t have to point out that his home was the halfway point between Baker Street and the hospital. “It’s likely to be pretty complicated; I might not get back until quite late.” Early, more likely, based on what Dr Hicks had said.

“I imagined as much. I’ll bring a bag.” 

“Right. See you soon, then.” John disconnected, called for a cab in half an hour’s time and hurried upstairs to comb his hair and hunt up some socks. Greg left his construction and followed him upstairs, and John didn’t have the heart to scold him about putting away his playthings. Not now, when he was leaving at a moments notice and probably overnight.

“Where are we going?” Greg asked.

“I’m afraid it’s just me this time. I’ve been called in to work.” 

“Mrs Hudson said you help people who are hurt really bad. She said they call you, if they need your help.”

“That’s right. And that’s what I need to do right now. Mrs Hudson is away, so Sherlock is going to come over here to stay with you. Can you help him with supper?”

“He doesn’t cook good. Can it be pizza night?” 

“I suppose so. You can show him where the phone number is on the pin-board.” He retrieved his wallet and pulled out a few bills for the delivery. 

“I want to stay up until you get home.” 

John shook his head, collecting his St Francis ID. “I don’t know what time I’ll be back, kiddo. You go to bed on time, and I’ll be here when you wake up. Probably,” he added, to avoid lying, even unintentionally. 

He was pulling on his shoes when the doorbell rang and Greg ran to answer it. Sherlock radiated calm while John rapidly explained the nightly routine, including bedtime rituals and the usual pizza order. Then the cab had arrived, and John was waving through the window, wondering if his patient had done the same as he left for work that morning. Medical advances meant he’d be going home again, denning with his family for the work of recovery. And if John Watson had anything to say about it, he’d be able to shift again, too. 

~*~

The sun was just cresting, not truly risen but brightening everything around him with a soft light that perfectly matched his exhausted haze, when he unlocked the front door. It had been a long time since he’d participated in such a complex surgery, and, although the support had been far more comprehensive than in an active combat zone, his energy was tapped just as thoroughly as he’d remembered. But with good cause; eight hours in surgery had saved his leg, and John’s insistence that he be dosed with the newest line of suppressants had saved his shift. He eased the door shut behind him, unwilling to break the silence of early morning. Hopefully everything had gone smoothly and the night had been an easy one for both Greg and Sherlock. He stifled a yawn and peeked into the kitchen; everything was tidy, not even a water glass sitting on the counter. The laundry basket was still in the sitting room, a picture book sitting on the coffee table, but the toys were neatly shelved and drapes pulled shut. 

Upstairs, Greg’s bedroom door was ajar and the bed was empty. Even as he forced back the rising panic, he heard the two sets of breathing coming from the open door to the guest room. Here was Sherlock, clad in soft pyjamas and lying in the narrow bed with his back against the wall, curled protectively around Greg. Fang was clutched in Greg’s arms, and his face was tucked against Sherlock’s tee-shirt clad chest. A book rested on the duvet; he’d been reading, then, and fallen asleep. 

John stood there for a long moment, soaking up the peace and safety of the early morning. Then he straightened up from the doorframe, intending to slip into the room to shake Sherlock’s foot and wake him up, but before he could reach out those quicksilver eyes snapped open. Obviously he’d not been as deeply asleep as John thought, because his gaze was as penetrating as usual. Surely even he couldn’t come up from deep sleep and be that alert, that fast. 

“You look exhausted, Dr Watson.” He spoke in hushed tones, but began to ease himself and Greg up from the bed. 

“Here, I’ll take him.” John gathered the sleeping boy to his chest and carried him to his own bed, Sherlock trailing behind but waiting in the hallway until Greg was snuggled under the blanket.

“Rough night?” John scrubbed the back of his neck, trying to stir some energy back into himself. 

“He got up around eleven and said that as long as I was staying up, he’d keep me company.” 

“Sorry,” was all the response John could dredge up.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be. I worked it out. Said I was going to bed now, went upstairs and tucked him back in, settled in the guest room to read. Five minutes later, he’s in the doorway telling me that he knows I’m not going to bed because I don’t have pyjamas on, and it isn’t nice to trick, quote, ‘people who are just little’.”

“Ah.” John manfully hid his grin; Sherlock’s own fault, really, if the skills he was teaching Greg were used against him. “What did you do then?”

Sherlock gestured down his body. “Put on my pyjamas, what else? Put him in his bed, again, settled down with my book. He came back in around midnight, didn’t say anything, just crawled in with me. I’m not sure he was even really awake he was at that point.” 

John nodded, glanced at his watch, and bit back a groan. Greg would likely be up in the next hour or so. Time to make some strong coffee. Maybe he could put in a video later, catch a cat nap while Greg watched. Using the screen as a child minder wasn’t ideal, but desperate times called for desperate measures. 

Sherlock followed him into the kitchen with a frown, as John opened the cupboard and just stood in front of it, waiting to remember why he’d come in here. 

“What are you...oh, for heaven’s sake.” He darted forward, caught the bag of beans that John was fumbling off the top shelf, and grabbed John’s shoulder with the other hand. His good shoulder, which John would appreciate later, probably. If he remembered. “You’re beyond exhausted. Go get some sleep, I’ll stay and look after Greg until you wake up.” 

“Promised Greg I’d be here when he woke up. I’ll be fine after I have some...stuff.” He reached for the bag, but Sherlock kept it away by the simple expedient of raising his arm until the bag was high above John’s head.

“I don’t have anything else on. We’ll have a practice session. Leave your ID down here, that way Greg will know you’re home. Or leave your bedroom door open; he’ll probably look in there before he comes downstairs, anyway.” 

John blinked slowly, then nodded. There were probably reasons he shouldn’t accept, things to do with not imposing on Sherlock’s schedule, but he couldn’t really think of what they might be. “Okay, yeah, wake me in a couple of hours?” 

Sherlock hummed non-committally, which John decided to take as agreement before heading up to his own blessedly dark bedroom. The heavy curtains really had been an excellent investment. He stripped out of his street clothes, pulled on a pair of track pants with his vest, and was asleep in moments.

 

When he woke several hours later, it was with the dim memory of Greg’s and Sherlock’s voices and the sound of the door being pulled shut. The clock showed that it was early afternoon; had Sherlock ignored John’s request, or had he been so tired that the other man couldn’t wake him? Surely he hadn’t lost the ability to awaken when needed. He visited the loo, brushed his teeth, and ran his head under the sink. Thus refreshed, he went downstairs.

The patio door was open, and he could hear Sherlock’s rumbling voice in the garden, so he took the time to make some tea before heading outside. Sherlock was standing in the grass, barefoot and draped in an elegant burgundy changing robe. The kaftan-like garment was edged in deep blue-black, with a crest riding over Sherlock’s heart. Greg was in shift-form, nose to the ground as he sought an invisible trail. The late afternoon sunlight burnished his coat, tan and white blurring into a soft golden glow. On the ground at Sherlock’s feet rested a puzzle, red plastic bones in a blue frame. John had repurposed it, using the pieces to practice scent identification. 

“Remember what I said about the air, Greg. It will be rising now, and you’ll get a better scent higher up,” Sherlock pointed out. 

Greg adjusted himself, lifting his nose off the ground. Seconds later his ears swept forward and he pranced across to the fence that separated John’s property from the garden next door. The plastic bone was hidden in one of the planters along the fenceline, out of sight beneath the lip of the pot but sending out a clear scent cone for those with the skills to locate it. Greg braced his forepaws on the edge and nosed under the foliage, emerging with the puzzle piece held daintily between his teeth. When he saw John watching, his tail stood straight out behind him and he bounded over to show off his prize. 

John hastily set down the tea, freeing his hands to scoop Greg up in a hug. “You’re getting awfully good at that.” He leaned over to put Greg back on the ground after pressing a quick kiss between his ears, then gathered the mugs and crossed to the patio.

“Thanks for looking after him.” He handed Sherlock his tea and sank into the opposite chair.

Sherlock nodded. “Where’d you get the toy?”

John coughed lightly. “It’s a training device for pets,” he confessed. “I suppose it’s a bit lowering, using actual dog toys, but there’s really nothing else out there.”

“I don’t doubt that. Why toys at all?” 

John wondered if Sherlock knew how much that question said about his own upbringing. “Because it’s more than just play. He’s learning how to use his were senses, and he’s beginning to associate his wolf-form with enjoyment, rather than fear.” His eyes were caught by the way Sherlock’s lips clasped the edge of the mug, sipping cautiously at the hot tea. The long fingers cradling deep blue china was no less arresting. Desperately, he looked further down and focused on the embroidered crest that graced Sherlock’s robe. In a fairly standard oval, a sprig of pink flowers with elongated leaves had been delicately picked out. 

Sherlock caught the direction of his gaze, and grinned wickedly. “Kennedia Rubicunda means ‘intellectual beauty’ in the language of flowers.” 

Even for someone as unique as Sherlock, that seemed an esoteric bit of knowledge. John had to admit that it was singularly appropriate. “How did you come to pick that, then? Not exactly in the common form. Most teenagers go in for something with a more bellicose symbolism.” 

“My brother made a rather cutting remark about my brain being the only worthwhile thing about me.”

John frowned. “Even for siblings, that’s pretty cruel.” 

“I’d deduced something particularly unpleasant about his ‘study partner’ and her intentions; he took it hard when I was proven correct. Being shown up by your seven year old brother is a bit lowering, I suppose.” 

John’s nod of understanding cut short when he completely parsed what Sherlock had said. “Wait. Seven? You picked your crest when you were _seven?_ ” 

Sherlock sipped his tea, radiating unconcern, but John saw a flash of wariness in his green eyes. “I came into my shift when I was five, owing to a missed wolf-fever inoculation. I was form stable by the time my brother left for school. Our parents had died shortly before that, so he oversaw my robing.” 

“Wolf-fever is treatable. Uncomfortable, but there’s no reason you should’ve shifted.”

“My parents were distant, my nanny was fairly indifferent. By the time anyone realized I had more than a summer cold, it was too late.” 

John was saved having to reply when Greg ran over and bounced up to put his front paws on Sherlock’s knees, whining a bit and nudging at the man’s hands with his nose. 

“Go ahead, then. You did well today.” 

Greg’s tail waved twice, a bit uncertainly, but then he plunked down on his haunches and closed his eyes. It was always somewhat nerve-wracking, watching someone so young shift from one shape to another. John held his breath, watching the air shimmer around the pup, expanding and then contracting again into the boy’s naked body, sitting cross legged on the grass. 

Greg stood up with a frown, brushing at his buttocks. “Grass is itchy.”

John sighed. Probably time to mow it again. “Bet you’re hungry. You go get dressed, and I’ll see about a snack.” 

Sherlock stood and began heading into the house. “I’ll get dressed, too.”

John nodded and collected the mugs, risking one glance at the long legged figure striding across the garden in the opulent silk robe. Of course he wasn’t wearing anything underneath; that was the whole point of changing robes, after all. Mostly, though, they were made of fabric less opulent. Less clingy. Less touchable. 

“Knock it off, Watson.” Obsessing over Greg’s tutor and occasional minder probably wasn’t on a par with seducing the nanny, but still wasn’t entirely prudent. But John still wondered if he could find some excuse to have Sherlock stay a bit longer. 

 

It turned out he needn’t have wondered. When Sherlock came downstairs, a few minutes after Greg, he was carrying a pair of manila file folders. “You were a shift-medic on the front lines. I assume you’ve seen a lot of violence, deaths, that sort of thing.” 

“Yes. A fair few.” Too many, but no need to get into that. 

“Want to see some more?” He waved the folders enticingly. 

“Yes, alright.” John put a plate of cheese and crackers on the table for Greg, along with a glass of water, then took the folders into the living room. The top one appeared to be crime scene reports from about five years ago. A young were, in shift-form, dead from brutal wounds to his throat and neck. Wounds that, in their descriptions, bore a frightening resemblance to some John had seen after an ugly incident overseas. The crime scene photos confirmed the written report. Beneath that was another form, another dead shifter, with similar injuries. The final report showed two dead. John closed his eyes for a long moment, sighed, and handed the folders back to Sherlock without opening the second one. 

“You’ve seen injuries like this before,” Sherlock said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah. Never thought I’d see them again. Hoped I’d never see them again anywhere. These are official reports, crime scene reports. Solved?”

“No. Not enough information; there wasn’t much to connect the victims, except they were all street kids, of similar age, all weres, and all died in shift. I worked on the case a bit, but there wasn’t anything to go on. Not then.” 

Sherlock glared at the folder, then pulled the other one to the top and gestured for John to open it. “Now, though. Now, I think I may have something.” 

John quickly scanned the report, and realized he was looking at the crime scene documents from the fire at the Lestrade home. “They’ve identified the mystery body. David Shaw? Is that significant?”

Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa next to John and began to speak in a hushed tone. “David Shaw owned a variety of businesses around London. All of the bodies were found within three blocks of one of his properties.” He grabbed the file and pulled out a map, with colored dots for each body, and crosses over what John guessed were David Shaw’s buildings. 

“Yes, okay. So what’s that got to do with him being killed at Greg’s house?” 

Sherlock pointed out the X closest to where the first body had been found. “Emil Lestrade used to work for him at the Running Rabbit, here. He was a regular patron of this bar.” Also close to where the second body had been dumped.

John referred back to the reports. “When did Emil leave Shaw’s employ?” 

“April, four years ago.” 

“That’s just about the time of the second killing. Three months after the first body, and two months before the last ones.” 

“Also the same month as Greg’s birth. Interesting, wouldn’t you say, that a man who has just become a father would leave his job?” 

“Could’ve gotten a new one. Something closer to home or with better pay. But you think they’re connected. These murders, Emil Lestrade quitting his job. Greg’s birth? It could just be coincidence.”

“Coincidence doesn’t get people murdered in the home of a man they haven’t seen in four years. Emil Lestrade wouldn’t have disappeared over a coincidence; Greg wouldn’t have been frightened into shifting. Greg witnessed something that night. Two bodies, one traumatized child, and Emil is the only one unaccounted for. Until we know more, it’s going to be safer for Greg if we assume Emil’s a threat.” 

John nodded once, firmly. “That makes sense. He’s not getting anywhere near Greg. He’ll be sorry if he tries.”

“I never doubted that for a second.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot sing praises to the wonderful longhornletters, loudly enough. She has sat beside me on every step of this process, held my hand through the roughest of rough drafts (drats, too, as I keep typing), through the winnowing and finally to these edited chapters. A good friend is a blessing beyond compare.

Having left the final decision until after the start of term, John found few schools with openings, and fewer still that were willing to take a shift-stable four year old. He’d called the places that Stamford suggested, done a couple of on-site visits without Greg. When the neighborhood school both was welcoming, and had spots available, he decided it was meant to be. The only thing left was for Greg to make a morning visit to the facility. John charted out a route, and they set off after breakfast. 

It was a quiet walk, until Greg asked the pavement, “Are you sure I need to go to school?”

“Pretty sure, yeah. And I think after a while, you’ll want to.” 

“I tried once, you know.” 

“Did you?”

“Mummy had me go to one. I didn’t like it. The big kids wouldn’t let me play with the fire-truck. Mummy said maybe they’d be my friends one day but I didn’t go back. Because of the fire,” Greg explained. 

There didn’t seem to be much John could say to that. He squeezed around the small shoulders, and they kept walking. Soon they began to see children, singly and in small groups, and finally the school came into view. A black boy about Greg’s age was running and jumping along the sidewalk, swinging his backpack to give himself more momentum for each leap. On one particularly vigorous effort, it flew from his hands and landed at Greg’s feet. He picked it up as the other boy ran over. 

“Hi! I’m Marcus. Are you gonna be a new kid?” 

“I dunno. Here’s your backpack.” Greg held it out by the grab strap.

Marcus took it, and said, ”I bet you are. It’s the best, we’ve got a garden and everything. I’ll be your friend on your first day, okay?” 

Greg hesitated, and looked over to John for guidance. John crouched, putting himself at the boys’ level. “That’s nice of you, Marcus. We’re going to talk with Ms King, and if that goes well, Greg would be starting next week.” 

“We can be friends, but I don’t like chasing games.” This had been a significant worry of his. John, knowing how deeply tag figured in playground culture, had helped him come up with different ways to get out of it. 

“Okay. No chasing. See ya’ later!” 

Ms King greeted them at the school entrance. “Dr Watson, it’s good to see you again. And this must be Greg.” She offered him a handshake, then led the way into her office.

John wondered if it was a universal law, that the offices of those who worked with children be undersized and overstuffed, though this one did at least boast a window and some struggling pot plants. Instead of a desk, it held a round table and four mismatched but comfortable chairs. There was an enormous corkboard on the wall beside it, covered over by a large calendar and several notices for upcoming events. Once everyone was seated, Ms King said, “Greg, you probably know that I’ve talked with John already, and answered most of his questions. Today it’s your turn. Is there anything you’d like to ask about Primrose School?”

Greg stared up at her and, to John’s embarrassment, took a deep sniff through slightly parted lips, scenting the air for any hint of threat. Ms King’s gaze softened sympathetically, the fingers of one hand lifting to forestall the rebuke John had been about to deliver. Greg didn’t break eye contact with the headmistress until he’d finished mumbling, “I don’t know.” 

Which was marginally more polite than the answer he’d been giving John all week. Ms King nodded. “It wasn’t a very good question, was it? How about this one, instead: do you have a favorite television show?” 

“I like _Word Wolves_.” 

“That is a good one. My favorite character is Melly. And if you like _Word Wolves_ , I bet you like books, too.” She offered him a small basket from beneath the table. He pulled out a familiar title and began scanning the bright pictures, murmuring the words beneath his breath. John wasn’t at all surprised that he’d memorized it; it was a favorite bedtime selection.

Ms King smile, and turned back to John. “Do you have the form from his therapist?”

That the Ministry of Education required Dr Chen to sign off on Greg’s school admission was maddening, but some fights weren’t worth the energy it would take to have them. 

Ms King tucked it into the file in front of her. “We’ve never had an early shifter; it’s not something that tends to come up in this age group. After I spoke with you, we had a staff meeting and came up with a response plan. Our main goal, of course, is the safety of all the children, but we take the emotional well-being of the shifted youngster very seriously. I think it’s a good plan, but if there’s anything specific you’d like to add, we’d be happy to consider it.” She handed the printed sheets across for John’s perusal.

The plan looked good, at first glance. There was no mention of restraints or isolation, beyond having one staff member designated to stay with Greg while the other kept the children busy in a separate area. A phone call to John was the first order of business, once the immediate crisis was sorted. John pointed to one line-item. “This here, about a follow up meeting? What’s that for?” 

“Just to make sure we can prevent further incidents; you said he only shifts when he’s very frightened, and we want our school to be a safe place. We’d do the same for any child who experienced an emotional upset of that intensity.” When John nodded his understanding, she asked if they’d like to see the classroom.

“What do you think, kiddo? Want to have a look?” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

The classroom was arranged for cooperative learning, low tables grouped so that four or five children could work together. In one corner, the teacher’s voice rose and fell as she read a story to the assembled students. Ms King gestured encouragingly, and Greg began to wander through the classroom, drifting from shelf to shelf and constantly edging closer to the cluster of children. The boy from outside, Marcus, saw him and scooted to one side, smiling in welcome. With several glances between the group and John, Greg finally went over and settled on the rug in the space that had been made for him. 

“Well, he’s already picked up a friend. Marcus is a nice boy. A little wild sometimes, but he’s got a big heart.” 

“The met outside, briefly. Marcus already promised not to chase him. Greg doesn’t like anything to do with chasing,” John explained, at her questioning look. He let his eyes wander the classroom; the staff had been arranging it on his last visit, and the cupboards had largely been empty. One set of shelves boasted magnifying glasses and a variety of leaves, stones, and slices of wood. Another held art supplies, and a large plastic tub with a cover over the top and a spigot in the bottom suggested there was water-play available. When Greg’s voice rose with the other students’, enthusiastically chanting the repeated lines of the story, John smiled. 

“Where can I get his kit, and when can he start?”

“We’ve got a few pieces available in the office. Welcome to Primrose, Dr Watson. I know Greg is going to like it here.” 

*~*

They’d gone home with Greg’s uniform in a plastic sack, and settled in the kitchen to attach name tapes and talk about expectations. 

“Can we get treats after school?” Greg had taken special notice of the bakery and ice-cream shop along the route.

“Not every day. Fridays, to celebrate the weekend.” John lifted the iron and examined the edges of the label. 

“Maybe on the first day, too. Because I’m being very brave.” 

John nodded his agreement. “Yes, alright. First day, and Fridays after that.” 

“You didn’t get any jumpers. I’ll need one if I decide to keep going.” 

Damn. How had he forgotten? Maybe not a jumper, but a sweatshirt, anyway. “We’ll order one.” 

“What if I get scared? What if I want to go home?” 

“If there is a real emergency, a real reason for you to come home, the school will call me and I’ll come get you.” The last shirt went into the pile, and John started on the trousers and shorts. “But it has to be real, right? Not just that you’d rather not be someplace new. You need to give it a fair chance.” 

“You’ll keep your phone on, though, right? Really loud?”

“Absolutely.” 

All too soon, Greg’s first day arrived. Once he’d put on his navy blue shirt, John snapped a picture with his phone and handed over the backpack. “Time to go, kiddo.” 

Greg held tightly to John’s hand on the walk there, not quite dragging his feet but not hurrying or saying much, either. Marcus greeted them outside the school, running up to Greg with an excited grin. “I knew you were going to be the new kid!” 

A matching grin lit up the face of the man behind him, who offered a hand to John. “Tobias Gregson, and my grandson, Marcus.” His skin was a shade or two darker than Marcus’s light brown, and his voice was a deep, soothing rumble. 

“John Watson, and Greg Lestrade.” They entered the building together, and Marcus quickly said goodbye to his grandfather. Greg’s own farewell was a bit prolonged, but eventually John was on the pavement, wondering what to do with himself. Six hours stretched in front of him, and he was already fretting about Greg being in a strange place, without the comfort of a familiar face or smell. To his surprise, as he was about to turn back toward home, a tall figure with dark curls and a memorable stride appeared around the corner. 

“Sherlock?”

“Ah, dropped him off already. Good. Come with me.” He continued down the pavement, having barely slowed to greet John. “There’s a nice little cafe just down the way, we can talk there. You can get the breakfast you skipped.” 

Fair enough. Not like he had anything more pressing; he’d decided to wait until after the first week to schedule appointments and run errands during school hours. Still, though, he did wonder, “How’d you know I was here?” 

Sherlock dismissed the question with a flick of one hand. “Asked Mike where Greg was going; term started about a week ago, just enough time for you to find a place for him. Could’ve worked it out on my own, not so many places with openings, but this was faster.” He held the door for John, then indicated a small booth toward the front of the shop. “I’d suggest an omelette rather than the eggs benedict. The eggs are fresh, but the hollandaise sauce is from a jar. Just coffee for me.” 

John sighed and went to order, wondering if Sherlock got his way from everyone or if he was just a particular push-over. Not that it mattered, he decided, and carried the coffees toward the booth Sherlock had taken. “You’re welcome,” he said pointedly, plonking the mug down in front of the detective.

Sherlock ignored the sarcasm, instead asking, “How is he feeling about school?”

John described Greg’s conditions for attendance, which gave him an opportunity to place his mobile on the table, where he’d be certain to notice if it rang. He ignored Sherlock’s knowing smirk.

“What time do you pick him up?”

“15:15.” 

Sherlock didn’t comment on his habitual use of 24 hour clock. “Plenty of time, then. Good.” 

“Plenty of time for what?” John leaned back as a plate was slid across in front of him and thanked the server, then raised an eyebrow at Sherlock.

He waited until John had begun eating to lean forward and explain the purpose of this impromptu conference. “Forensics managed to recover data from the phone. It belonged to Emil Lestrade.”

John waved his hand in a ‘so what’ gesture. “Really not news. We’d already guessed that.” The real question to his mind was, why had it been smashed?

“The call logs were still intact; there were several phone calls between Emil and David Shaw, starting a few months ago. The last was the day before the fire.” 

John swallowed his toast and took a sip of coffee. “Why would he arrange a meeting? You said he left The Running Rabbit what, four years ago?” 

“And no contact after that, until April.” Sherlock’s hand dwarfed the mug it was wrapped around. The fingers of his free hand drummed on the table-top.

“Looking for a job? He was dismissed from Howling Wok in March. Can’t get allowance if you’ve been sacked, and his wife wasn’t working.” He took a bite of omelette; Sherlock was right, the food was decent. 

“Maybe. That doesn’t explain the murders, though, or the fire. Or why he’s missing, or Greg.” 

The bell over the door rang, heralding the entrance of a raggedly dressed middle-aged woman. Her heavy jumper and boots were more appropriate to January than September, and the rucksack she had slung over one shoulder had probably been old when John enlisted. In spite of her worn and weary appearance, her hair had been washed recently, and her clothes were clean and mended. 

“Ah, Sylvie!” Sherlock began standing to greet the new arrival, but the cafe owner was glaring and spoke over him.

“No. Out you get, now. I’m sorry, I know times are hard, but this is a business, not a shelter. Paying customers only.” 

The young woman shot Sherlock a helpless look, murmured “I’ll meet you on the corner. No rush,” and turned back toward the door. But John was on his feet, billfold in hand. Her eyes, even in the brief glimpse he’d had, carried all-too-familiar shadows. Stamford might recognize him as a military man, but veterans knew each other in a way civilians didn’t. Sometimes, John thought it would be a better world if they could. 

“Mushrooms all right? Sit down, I’ll order.” He strode to the counter, stared at the silently fuming owner until the man rounded the counter and stood behind the register. 

“Mushroom omelette, toast, orange juice, coffee. Please.” John didn’t raise his voice to place the order, kept his face blandly pleasant. But his eyes were hard on the owner’s face, his movements crisp and precise when he flipped open his billfold and passed over the bills. He didn’t smile when he thanked the man and marched back to the table to slide in next to Sherlock. 

“John Watson,” he said, pointing to himself rather than offering his hand. 

“Sylvie,” was all she offered him before turning her attention to Sherlock. “Person, or object?” 

“Person this time.” Sherlock pulled a photograph from his suit-jacket. “Went missing about four months ago.” 

Sylvie took the print, then sighed and shook her head. “Well, hell. That’s Emil.” 

“You know him?”

“Nah, not so much. Used to work at Howling Wok, ‘til he got sacked for feeding us out the back door.” She pursed her lips consideringly. “Wife and kid gone, too?” 

“His wife was murdered; his son is in care. Dr Watson is his guardian.” 

“Looks more like a soldier than a doctor.” 

“I served as a front-line shifter medic in Afghanistan. You?” 

She turned, looked out the window, and said quietly, “Falklands. There weren’t shift medics, then.” Were casualties had been low, owing to the rapid healing, but percentages only spoke to survival and death, not to the half-life of a lost shift. Only recently had the military acknowledged that such trauma ought to be accounted, and prevented if possible. 

Sherlock shifted impatiently in his seat, but John pinned him with a look, gestured to the other man’s mug. The cafe owner’s aggression had been enough; they could afford to give this veteran a moment. It cost nothing to be silent in the face of her memories. Sylvie’s gaze came back to them when her breakfast was delivered, but she didn’t speak again until she’d finished eating. 

“Emil had a soft touch. He closed the kitchen most nights, and there was always leftovers. If you got there quick, he’d let you have whatever wasn’t sold. ‘Specially the youngsters. Robin was a particular friend of his; he used to send the kids, new ones you know, around the shop. He’s got a squat now, doesn’t always want people to know where it is, but I can tell ‘im you’re looking.” 

“That won’t be necessary. I know where to find him.” 

Then she was out the door, and John stood up too. “Are we done here?” Listening to Sylvie’s information had been distracting, but now that she was gone, worry was fizzing in his blood again. He needed to move, use up some of the energy, settle himself. Arriving at the school smelling of nerves and stress wasn’t going to help Greg feel safe and comfortable there. Of course, he knew things would be fine. It was a good school, and Greg already had a friend, but that didn’t mean the transition was going to be easy. John wasn’t going to add to Greg’s struggle with his own uncertainties. 

Sherlock swept John with his gaze, down and up, then grinned knowingly. It was a little scary, if John was completely honest. “We’ll go look up Emil’s friend. His usual patch isn’t far.” 

Together, the left the cafe and started down the pavement. John lengthened his stride just slightly, a habit from the army, and Sherlock shortened his so they were in step. It was surprisingly easy, as if they’d been walking together for years. 

“So, Sylvie, and Robin? Friends of yours?” 

“The Homeless Network are my eyes and ears on the ground. As good as invisible, and they can go places I can’t. How many homeless people do you walk past without noticing?”

“Given that a significant number of them are veterans from shifter units, I’d say I notice more than the average person. But I take your point. And if Emil was already known to them, he might have gone to them for help. Assuming he stayed around.” But why wouldn’t he have tried to get in touch with his son? John honestly didn’t know what he hoped; if Emil had stuck around town for Greg’s sake, or if he’d fled London, never to be heard from again. 

“Hmmm. Yes.” They’d passed from the more well-traveled streets, into a section of the neighborhood that hadn’t yet been touched by the revitalization surrounding the canal. Sherlock led the way toward an empty storefront, with boarded up windows and a gate rolled across the door. 

“You have a key?” John looked dubiously at the new padlock securing the gate. 

“Something like that.” Sherlock pulled a slim case from an inner pocket of his jacket, leaving John to wonder how he’d hidden anything beneath the close fitting garment. A good tailor, he supposed, must have to account for any number of...yeah, that was not a line of thought he ought to entertain just now. The lock clicked open, and Sherlock grinned triumphantly while rolling back the gate. 

The inside of the shop was dim, and John reflected that his flashlight app was getting more use since he met Sherlock, than in the entire time he’d owned the phone. The light revealed lino, stained outlines showing where cabinets had stood. A cash wrap station was still in place, though the register was long gone. Sherlock led the way through a narrow door at the back of the shop. The stockroom had become a squatter’s den with pallets made from old blankets, a box of dry goods, and an actual camp stove. An old man looked up from his seat in the corner, grinning expectantly at his visitors. 

“Sherlock! Could’a just knocked, I’da let ya in.” 

“Robin. You look well,” Sherlock spoke in a neutral voice.

“Better, since you pointed this place up. Sleepin’ by the water’s no thing for an old man. Leave the bridges to the young’uns. Whatcha need? Bring me any chocolate?” Robin made no move to stand, but gestured for his visitors to join him. “Pull up a bundle, sit a while. Don’t like it when you tower over me.” 

John eyed the pallets before sinking gingerly down next to Sherlock, who was handing the old man the photograph of Greg’s father. 

“Sylvie says you know this man.” 

He barely glanced at it, nodded, and sighed. ““Emil Lestrade. Worked over to Shaw’s Running Rabbit, oh, ‘round five or so years back. Used to give the leftovers to us at the end of the night. Sylvie said he was doing the same at his new place, but they sacked him for it. Always skirting the edges, and always getting caught out. Just not quite as clever as he thinks he is, ya’ know?”

“So he got caught out at both places, but that’s not why he left the Running Rabbit?” 

”Nah. Worked out some sort of deal with his boss. Recruited folks for Shaw, some special thing he had going. Teenagers, mostly. Heard a rumour it was fights, for gambling ya’ know, and paid okay. Heard there was somethin’ not quite on the up-and-up, too. How long’s Emil been missing?” 

The air was heavy with Sherlock’s sudden tension. “Who said he’s missing?” 

“You wouldn’t be looking for ‘im, if he wasn’t.” He handed the picture back, and gestured toward a filthy cabinet in the corner. “There’s a thing in there. Emil, he gave it to me when he left Shaw’s place. Said if anything ever happened, I ought to get that thing to the cops. You’re close enough, I suppose.” 

In response to Sherlock’s gesture, John opened the door and shone his light around the empty shelves. Seeing nothing, he knelt and flashed it around the undersides, and there it was. A black thumb-drive, secured to the bottom of the next-to-lowest shelf with a strip of electrician's tape. He pulled it away and held it up for Sherlock to see. 

“Very good. Robin, I think this should keep you in chocolate for a while.” Sherlock handed over a folded bill, took the drive and thrust it into his pocket. “Come on, John.”

On their way back into more genteel neighborhoods, John asked, “That memory stick needs to go to the police.” 

“Of course. But I thought we might have a look at it, first. It’s our best link to Greg’s father, and Dimmock isn’t going to ask Emil about what happened to Greg. The murders are his first priority. If we find Emil first, you can get some answers.” 

John stopped dead on the pavement, staring at the other man. “I can’t...that’s incredibly manipulative.”

“Yes.” Green eyes stared him down.

“Dammit. Fine, yes, alright. My place is closer.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many kind comments and kudos; it makes my heart smile!

In the end, it didn’t matter whose place was closer: the thumb drive scanned clean of viruses, but the information was encrypted.

“Smarter than I gave him credit for, at least in this case,” was how Sherlock summed it up, and pocketed the drive. “I know someone who might be able to get at it, though.” 

John enjoyed the brisk walk to the school, and listened between the lines of Greg’s report on his own day. 

“Everyone has a folder, with a book for reading at home. Marcus said we’re lucky. His big sister has lots and lots of homework every single night.” 

“You spent a lot of time with Marcus, then?” John held Greg’s hand as he balanced along the lip of the kerb. 

“Yeah. Me and Marcus are best friends. He likes _Word Wolves_ too, even if he’s not were. His favorite food is pasta and he doesn’t eat meat.” 

John smiled. How simple the world was, when best friendships could be formed in the course of a school day. “That’s great, kiddo.”

“Yeah. School is better when you have a friend. I guess I don’t mind going so much.” 

~*~

The next couple days proved his declaration true. Greg willingly walked with John, trying to arrange their route so he could meet up with Marcus for the last couple blocks. On Friday, the teacher, Ms Pasha, sent home an enthusiastic note telling John how well Greg was adjusting and fitting in with the classroom routine. 

The second week came and went; John got a haircut and had a physiotherapy session while Greg was at school. Greg and Marcus continued to be best friends, although other names began to be mentioned, particularly Allan and Eddie. Twins, John learned, whose mother owned what Greg described as a ‘really humongous car’ to accommodate them and their infant siblings.

“Allan says they mostly just cry,” was all Greg had to say about a second set of twins in one family. 

Wednesday of the third week, John was chatting with Toby Gregson when the children came out. Marcus and Greg came out together, but there was none of their excited chatter or leave taking. Marcus simply took his Grandfather’s hand, waved absently to Greg, and turned toward home. John slung an arm around Greg’s shoulders and began walking down the pavement.

“Sherlock’s coming for a practice session tonight, and staying for supper after,” John told Greg. Sherlock had called to report that he’d be picking up the decrypted flash drive that afternoon, and John had been quick to invite him for the evening.

“Okay,” was Greg’s unenthusiastic response. John had expected more excitement; they’d talked about having him over for some time, and John was looking forward to the evening. Which, he told himself, was in no way inappropriate. People dined with friends all the time. 

They walked in silence for a few more minutes. “How did your day go?” John tried.

Greg shrugged. “It was okay.” 

Right. Probing questions, according to the parenting websites, were the way to go in this situation. “Tell me about lunchtime?” 

“It was stew and potatoes. And salad.” 

“Who did you play with during outdoor time?” 

“Nobody.” 

“Not Marcus?” 

“He had to stay in.” 

Here, perhaps, was the explanation for Greg’s mood. “And the other boys?” 

“They’re not my friends anymore,” Greg scathingly reported. “Are there biscuits at home? I’m hungry.” 

“Yes, and yogurt, too.” John allowed the topic change, but resolved to ask more later. 

Sherlock arrived shortly after they got home, taking Greg out to the garden, and John began building a lasagna from the recipe he’d found online. He could’ve just picked up a frozen one, but fresh was healthier, and he needed to add some meals to the rotation. Lasagna was good family food, it had said so right on the web-page. That the same site had offered a scaled down version for ‘date night’ was insignificant. He’d just drained the pasta when Greg, in human form, came into the kitchen, followed by Sherlock in his changing robe. “Done already?”

“Greg has decided not to have a lesson today.” Sherlock’s tone was suspiciously neutral.

“Really, Greg? How come?” 

Greg ignored the question and asked, “What are you making?” 

“Lasagna.” 

Sherlock looked impressed, but before John could register the warm glow of his approval, Greg was saying doubtfully, “Probably I won’t like it.” 

John frowned, darting a glance at the sullen boy. “If you try it, and decide you don’t like it, you can have a sandwich.” 

“Don’t want a sandwich. I want pizza.” 

“Sorry, kiddo. Not tonight. How ‘bout you get the salad spinner?” It was a bit early, but John didn’t suppose the shredded greens would come to any harm if he put them in the fridge. 

“Salad spinners are stupid. Salad is stupid. Lasagna is stupid.” Greg kicked the leg of a chair, and stared at John. Defiance flashed from his eyes, but there was fear, too. 

John scooped him up, sat him on the worktop, and continued layering pasta and cheese into the pan. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. If you’ll excuse us for a few minutes? Feel free to turn on the telly, or whatever.” 

“Of course. I’ll just go change.” 

John listened for the footsteps to disappear down the short hallway, adding the last layer of sauce and sliding the dish into the oven. He washed his hands, carefully hung up the towel, then lifted Greg off the counter and settled him in a kitchen chair.

He squatted down, so he was looking up into Greg’s eyes. “What’s got you in such a bad mood? You’ve been cranky since I picked you up from school.” 

“School is stupid.” 

“School isn’t stupid, but it sounds like something happened there that made you feel pretty bad. Can you tell me about it?”

Lower lip quivering, Greg shook his head. 

“Is it to do with Marcus staying inside today? Or is it something with Allan and Eddie?” 

“I don’t like them anymore.” Greg scowled, but there were tears standing in his eyes. “Eddie said you’re pretend. He said you don’t love me for real, because you’re not my real dad. Marcus said he was talking rubbish, and Eddie said Marcus wouldn’t know because he lives with a pretend dad, too.” 

“Oh, Greg.” John pulled him into a hug. “Oh, kiddo, no. Eddie was so, so wrong.” But Greg wasn’t finished with his story.

“Then Marcus punched Eddie, and Eddie used a swear, and then they were fighting and Allan was yelling at Marcus. And then Miss P came over, and made everyone sit somewhere else, and they all had to stay indoors and be sorry.” 

John allowed himself a moment of self-recrimination for thinking other adults would hurt Greg by misinterpreting their relationship, but not remembering how horrible children could be. Then he shoved that aside, and began the work of reassuring his _son_. 

“Greg. I want you to listen as hard as you can right now. Eddie was completely, absolutely, utterly wrong. He couldn’t have been more wrong.”

“But I don’t love you like I loved my real dad. It’s different.” 

“Of course it is. I’m a different person. I bet you didn’t love your mum the same as your dad, either.” Greg still avoided talking much about his family, but there just wasn’t another example to offer. He could feel the tension in the boy’s shoulders begin to relax a bit, as he worked it through. 

“No. I guess not. But she was my real mum.” 

“Yes. And I am your real John. I’m the one you live with, and who looks after you. ‘Dad’ is just a word we use to make it easier for other people to understand that. But it doesn’t matter what you call me. I’ll still be the person who takes care of you. I’ll still be the person who loves you, because you’re my Greg. And that’s completely for real.” 

There was a silent moment, and then Greg threw his arms around John’s neck and squeezed. John tried to hug back, desperately wanted to, but the action threw him off balance and he fell from his crouch into an undignified sprawl on the kitchen floor. Greg had let go when John’s balance shifted, and was staring at him with wide eyes. 

“I’m okay, it’s okay. That was quite a hug; you knocked me clean off my feet.” 

That brought a smile and a sniffly giggle. Of course it was at that moment that Sherlock appeared in the doorway, holding up John’s phone. “It keeps ring...what are you doing on the floor?”

“Greg gives super-hugs.” John hurriedly got back on his feet, offered Greg a damp cloth for his tear streaked face, and took his phone from Sherlock. Several missed calls, all from Toby Gregson. John painstakingly picked out a text, letting him know that Greg was okay and asking if he could postpone calling back until later. The reply was affirmative. 

“Right. We’ve got a salad to make. Greg, how ‘bout you show Sherlock where the salad spinner is kept?” 

They ate dinner in the tiny kitchen. Greg had seconds of lasagna, picked the cucumbers out of his salad, and carefully passed the biscuit plate to Sherlock and John before taking two for himself. John sent them to the sitting room while he tidied up, stacking and starting the dishwasher but deciding to soak the pots and pans. From the sounds filtering down the hallway, Greg and Sherlock were encouraging each other in some form of mischief, which John felt might get out of hand without him present. He hurriedly shut the kitchen door, resolving that he’d not think about pans until later.

The sitting room carpet was littered with paper airplanes, Greg had his arm cocked back for a throw, and Sherlock was stretched out on the floor with a tape measure. 

“I bet this one will win!” Challenge issued, Greg lofted his plane into the air and watched it’s path with a critical eye. It floated halfway across the room before veering sideways and plunging to the floor, well short of the distance Sherlock was marking. 

“Nice try, kiddo. Who got furthest?” John carefully picked his way through the debris field to settle onto the sofa. 

“Sherlock did. He folds really good, and knows lots of airplane shapes.” Greg piled the various craft on the coffee table, showing John the different wing shapes. 

“Very impressive. Can I have a go? What’s the furthest?” He picked up a sheet of A4 and began folding, pressing each crease tight with his thumbnail. Very soon he had a squat plane with a flat nose and broad wings. 

Greg showed him where the launch line was, and he gave his craft a light toss. It wafted across the room, bumped softly against the far wall, and dropped to the floor. 

“Wow! How did you do that? I want to make one. Show me!” Greg snatched up some paper and unceremoniously shoved the rest of the planes to the floor. 

John frowned and reminded him, “‘Show me, please,’ I’m sure you meant to say.” He couldn’t help noticing that Sherlock had also picked up a piece of paper, and was watching him curiously. 

“Right. I learned this from a nurse during my training. It’s a good form, but you can’t throw it too hard. Press that crease a little harder, Greg. Here.” John scooped up a pencil and showed him how to flatten the creases with it. 

The rest of the evening was spent tossing airplanes, with John describing some of the contests they’d had during medical school. It was probably healthier for Greg to not dwell on the troubles at school, but John knew he’d need some help responding to the bullying from his peers. He spun several possibilities in the back of his mind while the impromptu air show went on, but before he could settle on one, Greg had begun yawning and scrubbing one hand over his ear. 

“Time for pyjamas, kiddo. I’ll be up for your story in a few minutes.” 

“Can Sherlock do it?” Greg asked hesitantly.

John had turned to suggest Sherlock put on the kettle while John dealt with bedtime, so he saw the moment of utter surprise, quickly schooled away. Clearly, then, this was something they both wanted. He supposed the conversation about school could happen over breakfast as easily as before bed. And he could deal with the pans, or return Gregson’s call.

“Sure thing. Don’t forget to do your teeth.” 

He ended up having time to call Gregson, who simply wanted to compare notes to be sure they both had as clear an understanding of the situation as possible, and to wash the remaining dishes before Sherlock reappeared.

“Conned you into multiple stories?” 

“Actually, he wanted to apologize for skipping our lesson. He told me about the boys at school, and what they said. Who names their twins Edgar and Allan?” 

John decided not to tell him about three month old Holly and Ivy. “How did he seem? I thought we’d got a bit of ground back, but if he’s fretting-” 

“Not fretting, really. He did ask if I’d come pick him up tomorrow. He thinks the other boys might be impressed enough to leave him alone.”

John stared, trying to make sense of that statement, until Sherlock pulled a starkly intimidating face and raised an eyebrow. Realization dawned. “He wants you to frighten them.” 

“I think that was the general idea, yes. He specifically said I ought to ‘make that mean face you do’. Which, I hasten to add, I have no idea when he saw, because it has certainly never been directed at him.” 

John busied himself with the kettle, wondering what he was supposed to feel about that. He suspected the answer was neither ‘amused’ nor ‘impressed’, but eventually he had to give in to the laughter that was bubbling in his chest. “I saw it when you talked about your brother. And he’s clever, he’d only have needed to see it once. But what an idea; call in the scariest adult you know to intimidate the playground set.” 

Sherlock’s answering smile was rueful. “It has it’s charm, as plans go, but I assume you’re going in for a ‘communicate and defuse the situation’ model.” 

“I think so, yeah. Less collateral damage, that way. And thinking long-term, those boys are probably going to be his classmates for a long while. No sense making life-long enemies when he’s four.” The kettle snapped off, John poured, and loaded everything onto a tray. “Let’s go back to the sitting room; I want to be able to hear Greg if he wakes up.” 

“Is that likely?”

“More so when he’s had an upset, but probably not.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s laptop from the entertainment center and brought it to the coffee table, starting it up while John dealt with the tea. 

“That was password protected, you know.” John looked askance at his laptop, now merrily opening the files from the thumb-drive Sherlock had produced.

“Hmmm. Not to worry. I’m sure Greg won’t guess it.” A spreadsheet popped up, showing names, dates, and monetary amounts. 

John pointed at the screen. “Charlie Foreman. That’s one of the bodies in the file.” 

“Yes. And Derrick Smythe, and George Schaff. I don’t recognize these others, though.” He clicked another folder, which opened up a different set of spreadsheets. 

“Wait, go back.” John resisted the urge to shove Sherlock to one side, instead leaning across his thigh to look more closely at the screen. “No, one more...there.” He pointed to a column on the spreadsheet that Sherlock had barely glanced at. “Some of the same names here, see? And this second column, in a different order. Why is one name highlighted in each set, though? And what do the numbers mean?” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “The first set is earnings; the second is payouts. It’s a gaming record. Robin mentioned that Emil was recruiting people to fight.” 

“But why steal his bookkeeping? These things aren’t exactly legal, but nobody makes a particular fuss about them either. Not really.” The silence that followed this remark was weighted, and he said with a sigh, “Yes, I know about gambling rings. Fortunately, I enlisted before it got out of hand. Had a few hungry months, though.” 

“How do you always manage to surprise me?” Sherlock’s voice was a warm rumble in John’s ear, and he realized with a jolt just how close they were. He pulled back slightly, stealing a look at Sherlock’s slightly parted lips before he dragged his attention upwards. Sherlock’s eyes were green, silver, every shade of pale, and reflected back John’s certainty that they would become lovers. He turned away from that inevitability, felt the moment shatter with an almost audible snap.

“John, I-”

John stopped him with an upraised hand. “No, Sherlock, please. Not now.” He leaned back, deliberately reached for his tea, but stopped when Sherlock touched his arm.

“You felt it.” 

“Yes.”

“You want it.”

“I’d be lying if I said no.” 

“Then why did you?” Sherlock’s frustration was evident, but there was something else, something lost and frightened, underneath, that aroused all of John’s protective instincts.

“Because there’s a little boy upstairs, who needs me. You pulled the strings, you choose me to be his guardian, his protector. I can’t keep him safe, not and start something with you at the same time. He’s too important, and what I just felt is too big. So, not no. Just, not _now_.” 

John read the racing of Sherlock’s mind in the flickering of his narrowed eyes. He sipped his tea again, waiting, and was rewarded for his patience when Sherlock’s awareness came back to him.

“Once the threat to Greg is removed, you will be willing to...enter into a relationship?” 

No sense in denying what had the weight of certitude. “Slowly, and with all consideration for Greg’s emotional well-being, yes.” 

“Then we’d best finish looking through these files.” And Sherlock turned decisively back to the laptop, as if he hadn’t just been discussing their potential romantic involvement. As if John hadn't just nearly kissed him. Such compartmentalization probably allowed him to be very good at his job, but John found himself wishing Sherlock looked more flustered. More affected by John’s proximity. More like he felt the same magnetic pull.

There was one file left. This was an ametuer video, shot on a mobile held at hip-level. The sound quality was poor, and John didn’t want to wake Greg, so he reached to toggle it off. 

The video showed a small warehouse, with perhaps twenty people gathered around a roped off square. The photographer walked through the crowd, capturing a few faces, and approached the closed door of an office. The door opened without any hesitation, and Sherlock murmured, “Didn’t stop to knock. Well known? Expected?” 

Apparently not, going by the angry expressions inside the room. A man was seated behind a desk, glaring and gesticulating. “David Shaw,” Sherlock identified him. The person in the opposite chair turned to look, and Sherlock drew a surprised breath. “Gordon Bell. What’s a vice officer doing there?”

The video went black for a few moments, occasional flashes of brightness indicating that the camera was running but covered, before the scene opened up again in a small concrete room. Here, two nude teenagers changed into were-form while a man and a woman filled hypodermic syringes from a small bottle. These were used to inject the two wolves, which were then led out of the room. The cameraman quickly approached the table where the bottle lay, closing in on it’s label: **Lycodextrinol**. John sat up straighter, shivered at the zipping tingle as hackles he no longer possessed tried to rise.

“That’s not possible...they’ve just injected those boys with military grade shift inhibitors.” 

The camera had moved again, showing the roped off area, now with the two wolves circling and threatening each other. The video stopped as one lunged and savagely bit the other’s ear. The remaining footage, of a dead wolf being dumped in an anonymous alley, was almost anti-climatic, and then the screen went black.

Sherlock was the first to speak. “Fairly standard organized fight ring. Although doing it in shift is novel.”

John was still staring at the blank screen. “Standard up to a point. Injecting them with inhibitors, so they can’t shift back, can’t even begin to heal...why?”

“I’d imagine he wanted the fights to last longer. Shifting back to human form, that’s surrender, isn’t it? Wouldn’t that be why the military uses the drugs?” 

John shook his head, then grimaced and explained, “No. Or at least, not originally. They were really meant to buy time for the medics; keep injured soldiers from panicking and trying to shift back. Inability to surrender is...an exploitable side-effect.” 

“There you are, then. Shaw knew he’d draw more bettors if he offered longer fights. The unfortunate, and exploitable, side-effect meant some fights ended with one participant dead. Emil was recruiting for him, trying to give the kids a leg up. He could wink at fighting rings, but the deaths would have been too much; anyone who risks his job to feed the homeless won’t want to be party to death matches. This was his insurance, his ticket out from under Shaw.” 

John nodded. “He gets out of it, gets a job. Does okay for a few years, and then gets fired. Can’t get benefits, but he’s got evidence he can sell. That’s the phone calls, that’s what Shaw was doing in his house.”

“Yes. We’re getting closer, John.”

“Yeah. But the only person who can tell us exactly what happened that night, is still Emil. And we still don’t know where he is.”

“Then let’s find him.”


	11. Chapter 11

After Sherlock left, John sank into the sofa and pondered what to do about the school situation. Should he call and request a meeting of the families involved? Or was this just a bump in the road? Disagreements were a normal part of childhood, after all, and even if this one seemed more significant than an argument about sports or superheroes, Greg might be ready to move on. Maybe it was better to just let it pass. Unless it proved not to be an isolated incident. If it kept up, there would have to be a meeting. But what if, by saying nothing, he was letting down not just Greg, but Toby and Marcus as well? He resolved to check in with the Gregsons on the way to school tomorrow, and began shutting the house down for the evening. A peek into Greg’s room showed him clinging to Fang in his sleep. John completed the nightly ritual of drawing the blankets back around Greg’s feet, leaving the bedroom door cracked open, and flicking on the bathroom light, before turning into his own bedroom for the night.

He woke sometime in the darkest part of the night to find Greg standing at the side of his bed. “I had a bad dream, and Fang fell under the bed and I’m scared.” 

They padded down the hall together. John fished the dragon out from under the bed, then settled against the headboard and pulled Greg into his lap. “Want to tell me about your dream? Sometimes it helps.”

“Someone was chasing me. I was running and running but I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t find you, or Sherlock, or anybody, and I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. Then I woke up, and Fang fell down, and I didn’t want to look at a book. I just wanted you.” He snuffled against John’s chest, yawning and knuckling at his eyes. 

“I’m glad you came and got me.” 

Greg nodded and yawned again. Before too long, John was slipping him back under the blankets and repeating the bedroom door-bathroom light ritual. There’d been nightmares before, and nothing about the dream suggested it had been specifically about school, but John resigned himself to spending what remained of the night chasing worries around his head. 

~*~

When they met up with the Gregsons on the way to school, Greg and Marcus visibly joined forces, striding down the pavement side by side while their guardians hung back, out of earshot. 

“Marcus was a good friend to Greg yesterday.” 

Toby nodded ruefully. “Couldn’t believe it. Oh, not when Ms King called me; not the fighting. That’s believable enough. But rest of it, the speaking up for someone else. That’s new. I suppose there’s better ways to deal with it, and it’s not the done thing, is it, to be proud of fighting. But I am, in this case. Marcus is smart enough to know the difference even if some of his elders don’t.” 

John spoke slowly, selecting each word with care. “Sometimes, it’s the only choice there is. That’s a tough one for folks to wrap their heads around, I guess. Sure, they could’ve use their words, and I hope they will if it happens again. But Marcus had Greg’s back and in my world, that’s not a bad thing. I’ve known adults with less courage.” 

While they spoke, the boys had rounded the corner half a block up, and at the sound of raised voices John broke into a jog. In front of the school, Marcus and Greg had been confronted by a pair of red-haired boys standing aggressively in their path. Their mother was pulling away from the kerb, oblivious to the impending crisis. Before John could intervene, Toby laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“Wait. Give them a chance to handle it.” 

The twins were taller than either Greg or Marcus, and the one with the blue backpack stepped forward, contempt darkening his freckled face. “You oughta just go home, Marcus. Nobody likes you. Your grandpa only keeps you because he has to. Nobody really wants you.” 

Marcus clenched his fists and glared, but Greg stepped forward, putting himself in front of Marcus and staring up into the face of their tormenter. “I like Marcus. He’s my best friend. You better shut up, Eddie.”

“Nobody likes you, either,” Allan sneered from behind his brother. 

“John does. Marcus does. Sherlock does. Me and Marcus don’t care what you say. You’re just a stupid bully.” Greg stuck out his tongue at the two boys, grabbed Marcus’s hand, and strode over to the school door, leaving the twins staring after them. 

By unspoken agreement, John and Gregson stayed where they were until, when Ms Pasha came to let the students in, they popped in to Ms King’s office. She agreed that they’d all keep an eye on the situation, and call a meeting if it continued or escalated. “It sounds like Greg handled it very well, though, and hopefully that’ll be an end to it.” John agreed, shook hands all around, and headed home. The house was due for a good cleaning.

~*~

It was while he was hoovering that he found a stray paper airplane under the sofa. Last night had been such a validation for Greg, having the attention and support of his two favorite people. It’d been fun, too, bullying crisis and nightmare aside. If John acted on his attraction to Sherlock, would there be more evenings like that? Probably not, he decided, and vigorously attacked a colony of dust bunnies. Sherlock was a detective, and John’s admittedly limited understanding of that job suggested he’d not be available most nights. Still, most families probably didn’t really spend every evening together, especially as the children grew up and got involved in sports or other things. Given how active Greg was, it would probably be sports. 

He shoved the sofa back into place and decided to do the patio door while he was at it. Greg was generally good about keeping his hands washed, but still managed to coat the glass with smudges and prints. John had done sports as a child, at least for a while. He wondered what Sherlock had done for activities. He was obviously from a different social circle than John; what did that set go in for? Music, maybe, or art. Fencing? Horseback riding? Sherlock in riding boots and breeches, or a form-fitting fencing uniform...yeah, time to stop that line of thought. Windows cleaned, John trotted up the stairs to dust the guest bedroom.

The sight of Sherlock’s forgotten changing robe, drenched in sunlight where it was draped over the guest bed, challenged John’s resolve. All too clearly he could see how the burgundy silk had highlighted Sherlock’s pale skin, how it had clung to his sleek form. He’d admired the crest before, but now he picked it up for a closer look. The stitches were tiny, expertly worked so that the flowers seemed freshly picked. He told himself it was the lifelike flowers that made him want to lift the garment to his nose and inhale the fragrance that clung to it. 

“Jesus, Watson. Get a grip.” He folded the robe and set it back on the bed, then pulled out his phone to text Sherlock.

_Your changing robe is still at mine._

_I could pick it up this afternoon, unless you have a meeting after school. -SH_

_No meeting. See you around 16:00._

~*~

Sherlock was outside the school, and broke his conversation with Gregson to join John on the opposite side of the pavement. 

“What are you doing here? I thought we agreed that intimidating children was the last resort.”

Sherlock acknowledged the joke with a half-hearted grin. “You issued a dictate. I didn’t agree. I reserve the right to make scary faces should Greg be unhappy when he gets out.” 

“I hope you’re kidding. And you haven’t actually answered my question.” 

Sherlock glanced at his watch, then murmured low enough that the other parents gathering outside the building wouldn’t hear, “I’ve got some information.”

“What, since last night?” Upon closer examination, John noted Sherlock’s shadowed eyes, and the slightest hint of sag in his shoulders. “You look like you got less sleep than I did. Have you even been to bed?”

Sherlock waved that concern away. “I’ve been looking into David Shaw’s little side business.” 

“Find anything interesting?” 

“He was running fights right up until his death. It looks like he was the top of the chain.” 

“So the fight club died with Shaw, and Greg’s mother.” Given the tragic consequences to Greg, John was willing to take whatever good he could find. His relief was short lived, however.

“I’m afraid not even that. The power void has been filled, and the fights are continuing.”

“So they died for nothing.”

“They were killed for a reason. We just don’t know what it is.” 

“I actually had some thoughts about that. You thought Emil was going to sell the thumb-drive to Shaw, right? But those are easy to copy; you did it yourself. And Shaw wasn’t stupid, not if he was running a gambling and fight ring.” 

Sherlock nodded. “So you think Shaw came to silence him, rather than pay him.”

“Right. The most obvious way would have been to threaten Greg, which Geraldine wouldn’t have taken sitting down. I think she might have attacked Shaw, and gotten killed accidentally in the scuffle. Emil killed Shaw, possibly defending Geraldine, or maybe in retribution.”

Over the sound of the school bell, Sherlock said, “You worked that out on your own?”

John nodded, pleased that he’d surprised the other man. “I was trying to find something that fit all the facts. It makes sense.” 

“Hmmm. Not quite, though. What about the suitcases, and the train tickets?”

“Oh.” Abashed, John ran through his idea again, trying to make the rest of the pieces fit. He was saved from having to come up with something immediately when the school doors opened and children began pouring out. Greg and Marcus came out together, did a high-five followed by a complicated fist-bump maneuver, and ran to their respective guardians. 

“Me and Marcus have a secret handshake. We’re gonna sit together at lunch and save the best stuff for each other, always. That’s what best friends do.”

“Marcus and I,” Sherlock corrected.

“That’s great, kiddo,” was John’s response. 

“We didn’t sit with Eddie and Allan. Ms P said not to, but we weren’t gonna anyway. So Sophie and Carlos and Amina sat at our table. Sophie can quack just exactly like a duck!” Greg looked from John’s face to Sherlock’s, verifying that they were suitably impressed with this information. 

“What else happened today?”

“We learned how to press leaves. I want to try at home.” 

“Then I guess we’d better go to the park and collect some.” John smiled, and let Greg direct Sherlock where to detour.

Once at the park, Greg shoved his backpack at John and raced off to gather leaves. Sherlock and John settled on a handy bench.

“So. The suitcases, and the tickets.” John re-opened their previous discussion.

Sherlock waved his hand, spoke somewhat condescendingly. “Go ahead.”

“You said bras were missing from Geraldine’s suitcase, and that meant she wasn’t the one who packed it. If that’s true, she might not have known that Emil was planning for them to leave town.” The more he thought about it, the more sense that made. She’d been about to enroll Greg in school, or some sort of care setting. “She might not have known about the fighting or the gambling.”

“So her husband’s former employer shows up at the house,” Sherlock prompted.

“Yes. Maybe she thinks he’s going to offer Emil a job. But instead, she finds out that Emil is trying to squeeze Shaw for money, that he’s been holding the threat of exposure over him this whole time.” 

They paused their conversation to watch Greg, who was throwing fistfulls of leaves into the air and laughing with unbridled glee as they fluttered around him. For one blazing moment, John hoped Emil would return. He’d not forgotten Greg’s wide eyes and pale face when the boy added ‘no spankings’ to the rules. Then he narrowed his eyes, thinking back over everything they’d learned. What if the spankings had come not from Emil, but from Geraldine? The neighbor had mentioned her temper. Had it been hot enough for her to fly at her husband, particularly if she believed herself, her son, to be in danger? 

In dawning horror, John said, “Geraldine attacked him. It was Emil who killed Geraldine. And Greg saw him do it.” 

If John hadn’t been looking at Sherlock, he wouldn’t have seen the brief clenching of his jaw, would only have heard the emotionless tone he affected. “It seems very likely. I suppose it was accidental, but Greg wouldn’t know that. As for Shaw’s death, well. Tough to argue both of them as self-defense.” 

“He’s got train tickets. Running is already on his mind. He just needed to buy enough time to get out of town. So he sets the house on fire. With his son still upstairs.”

“He sets the fire, hoping Shaw’s body will be taken for his, and goes to collect Greg. But Greg has seen what happened, is hiding upstairs, terrified. The smoke alarm goes off, he knows that means he should get out of the house. But downstairs isn’t safe, so he goes out the window.”   
It all made a horrible, ugly sense. “And he sees his father looking for him, maybe calling for him. He’s being chased, so he hides.” 

“And the fire brigade comes before Emil has a chance to get his suitcase. Or his son.” John shook his head over the utter senselessness of it all. 

“Your son, now,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Only until Emil comes back. Knowing isn’t the same as proving.” 

 

~*~

 

The leaves were thick on the ground, the air cool with the oncoming autumn, and John knew the weather would shortly put an end to their outdoor pursuits. A visit to the playground, taking advantage of the last of the warm days, became part of the routine.

“Look at me, John! Look!” Greg was at the top of the climbing frame, waving frantically with one hand. After John waved back, he clambered down and ran to the swings. John had just decided it was time to go home when he spotted a balloon vendor coming from the other side of the playground. Greg saw him coming, and jumped from the swing to run toward the man. With a shake of his head, John turned to collect Greg’s backpack while he dug out his wallet with the other hand. He spun around when Greg began screaming, and saw the boy in the arms of the vendor. The balloons were drifting skyward as he dragged the struggling boy backwards toward a white van that was idling by the kerb.

“Stop! Let him go!” John dropped everything and began racing across the playpark, reaching automatically for a weapon that he no longer carried. He was only halfway to the pavement when the van doors slammed shut on Greg’s renewed screams. The van pulled out into traffic before John could catch the registration number, and he was left standing on the grass, panting and fumbling for his mobile.

~*~

 

Three hours later, Gregson was in John’s sitting room, coordinating the effort to find Greg. Mike had been called, a Child Rescue Alert issued, and a team assembled to find the missing boy. 

After describing the incident for the umpteenth time, and texting Sherlock for the fourth or fifth time, John excused himself to the loo for a moment of privacy. Greg’s toothbrush was lying on the back of the sink; he was forever forgetting to put it back in the drawer. John scooped it up, intending to put it away but sinking onto the closed toilet seat with it clutched between his shaking hands instead. He’d failed. His duty was to protect, and Greg was gone, taken who knew where, afraid and alone. There had been no communication, nothing to indicate who had taken the boy or why. He sat, huddled over the toothbrush, awash in self-recriminations until he heard the door open and Sherlock talking to the investigators downstairs. 

He stood up and spun the taps so he could splash his face, then looked briefly out the window over the sink. Twilight had settled heavily over the street, and in the gloom he saw a man slip furtively from behind some hedges across the way. His colorless jacket had probably been nice once, warm and sturdy, but was patched at the elbows and sagging with age. His hair was unevenly trimmed, but there was something familiar about his nose and eyes. John leaned forward, trying to get a better look. Recognition came when the man met John’s eyes and gestured for him to come outside, holding one finger to his lips. John nodded, went downstairs, and crept silently out of the house to meet Emil Lestrade.


	12. Chapter 12

Greg’s father wasted no time on greetings or introductions. “I know who’s got him; it’s me they’re trying to get. I can take you there, get him let go. But your friends inside aren’t invited.” He tipped his head toward the police vehicles. 

John nodded, stuck his hand into his pocket, and followed Emil into the waiting cab. He didn’t quite manage to hit the speed dial for Sherlock’s mobile before Emil gave their destination, so he waited a bit before asking, “The Bishop’s Avenue? Who kidnaps a child and takes him to Billionaire’s Row?”

“Shaw’s widow and Gordon Bell. He works vice at Scotland Yard. Shaw used to run a fight ring, see-”

“Yeah. Got that. Robin gave us the memory stick. I take it Bell was getting payouts in exchange for not shutting them down?”

“Right. Marlys is trying to get the ring back up, and Bell’s backing her. Never figured they’d grab a kid, but you’ll help me get him back and then I’ll get gone. Take Greggy to Scotland, start over. Just the two of us. It’ll be good to be together, just the two of us. Bet he misses me.” 

John set his teeth, answering Emil’s tone more than his words. “Misses you? He _grieves_ for you. He thinks you died in the fire. The fire you set, to cover up a murder.”

“I ain’t no murderer. Not my fault Geri flipped her nut. That’s on Shaw. He threatened Greggy, next thing I know he’s bleedin’ out all over the kitchen floor and she’s coming for me. I never meant to kill her, just get her off me, but she hit her head. I knew Bell’d be after me, though. Needed to get away. Didn’t figure on Greggy going out the window, but I told him I’d come get him. Don’t know why he ran away. Don’t know why he’d think I died.”

John said, tightly, “He thinks you’re dead because that’s what he was told. He’s repressed his memory of that night. Whatever happened was traumatic enough that he shifted; all he remembers is fire and fear. He has nightmares about being chased. He was terrified, hiding, in shift, for hours. It’s down to good luck and good care, that he’s form stable and recovering.” 

Emil’s voice was heavy with pride. “Form stable at four! Always knew he’d be special. And that changes things. There’s places that pay good money for studies and the like. He’d like Dartmoor, I bet.” 

“The Bishop’s Avenue,” announced the cabbie, before John could respond.

Emil glanced forward and directed the cabbie to keep driving before turning back to John. “Nearly there. So, look, here’s the deal. I’m gonna go in, give Marlys and Bell the memory stick-” he pulled one out of his pocket “-and you come in behind me, get Greggy away while we’re talkin’. Bring him ‘round the Were Services office tomorrow morning, and I’ll take him off your hands official like.” Emil nodded, pleased with his plan and the favor he was doing John in taking Greg away, then leaned forward and asked the cabbie to let them off in the next block.

It wouldn’t take much to take Emil down, tie him up with his own shoelaces, and call the cops. John could do it, easily, with no remorse. But Greg was in danger and being held somewhere nearby, and the only one who knew the address was Emil. He thrust a handful of bills at the cab driver, and hurried down the pavement after Emil, ignoring the prickle of non-existent hackles along his spine. Sometimes fighting wasn’t the best choice.

The houses were all set well back from the street, protected behind high fences and electronic gates. But they were dark; no lights shone inside the enormous structures. Every hundred feet or so, the fences were marked with signs warning potential trespassers about camera surveillance or guard dogs.

“Don’t worry ‘bout the signs. Camera’s are all disconnected, if they ever had ‘em. Nobody around to feed dogs, so.” Emil shrugged away their existence.

“These houses are all empty?” John couldn’t hide his disgust at such waste. 

“Most of ‘em. Bunch of foreigners bought ‘em up in the 80s, never used ‘em. Mostly they’re being sold to developers, made over into flats. Takes time, though. Stop here a minute.” 

Emil nodded across the street. “That’s 146. Now, what you want to do is go up just past the gate for the next house over. There’s a break in the shrubs where you can get in. Circle ‘round the house, there’s a construction fence between ‘em where the gate’s broken off.”

“How do you know all this?” 

“There was some articles on it a few years back. And homeless folks always know where the good squats are. So, I’m going in the front end. Gate’s supposed to be unlocked. I’ll distract ‘em. You sneak in through the back, get Greggy, and meet me tomorrow at the service office.” 

John had no intention of letting Emil take his son without a fight, but that was best left until after they’d recovered him from his captors. Emil was dodging traffic and ducking into the recessed gateway, so John hurried up the pavement and crossed when he could see the dark outline of the next house. The gap in the shrubbery was smaller than he’d expected, and the privacy wall a bit taller, but he ignored the lancing pains from his bad shoulder and heaved himself up, dropping onto the other side with a grunt and roll. He hoped he could get out another way; there was no chance of making the climb again. He rolled his shoulder, trying to ease the ache, but his arm flopped at his side. 

Obviously, there had been some effort at upkeep here. The lawn was green, and had been recently mowed. A dry fountain stood in front of the house, with the driveway looping past it and toward the back of the property. A few leggy weeds, brown and dead, jutted up from between the pavers. John skirted the edge of the house, resisting the urge to look through the surprisingly intact windows. The back garden was more utilitarian, with the driveway running up to a multi-bay detached garage. Beyond that there was a tall chain-link fence, with the gate lying in the blighted grass. John’s phone buzzed against his thigh, and he pulled it out to check the display.

_Where are you? SH_

John quickly filled him in, ignoring misspellings and hitting send before ducking into the denser shadows surrounding the house. 

_Wait. SH_

Within minutes, Sherlock was slipping into the shadows, looking over the back of 146. In contrast to the house next door, it was clearly suffering the ravages of time and abandonment. This side of the house had boasted a conservatory, now with most of the glass panes shattered. Two wings flared out alongside, with wide windows boarded up against the weather. One sagging wall was supported by an emergency scaffolding that appeared to have become a permanent part of the landscape. The doors on both wings were boarded over, leaving the conservatory as the only point of ingress. 

“Emil went in a few minutes ago. Two inside, according to him. Gordon Bell, and Shaw’s wife, Marlys. She’s behind the new fights. Bell’s helping her, and neither of them appreciated Emil’s blackmail attempt.”

Sherlock blinked. “I can well imagine. Gordon Bell is a vice detective; it wouldn’t do his career any good should people learn he was protecting Shaw’s sideline. So they grabbed Greg to draw Emil?”

“It worked, too, except they didn’t count on Emil coming to me first.” 

“Let’s use that to our advantage.” Sherlock was already moving toward the gate as he spoke.

Nobody challenged them when they entered the skeleton of the conservatory. Broken glass crunched underfoot, and the raised beds and water gardens were littered with years’ worth of detritus. The conservatory let out into a low-ceilinged passage, the end of which opened into an enormous entrance hall. John squeezed past the scaffolding that partially blocked the doorway, and looked about what had once been an opulent display of wealth. Twin staircases swept down from a landing, curving around the door he’d just come through. Once white, they were stained with mildew, and the one on the left had actual ferns growing through the wall. He sniffed, trying to determine Emil’s direction, but dusty air and the overpowering smell of mice made it impossible. 

The remains of an elegant chandelier were scattered across the large foyer, along with mouldering plaster and broken beams. The fixture had carried a fair bit of the ceiling with it, exposing joists that were braced by the scaffolding he’d ducked around. 

A quick glance into the rooms on either side of the foyer showed them to be in similar states, wallpaper peeling, filthy curtains over equally filthy boarded-up windows. Insulation littered the floor of one room, and a number of animal skeletons could be seen in the other. A second door out of one showed a kitchen space, high-end appliances fallen to ruin. The dust lay undisturbed.

“Where do you think they’ve got Greg?” 

“Upstairs, at a guess. Bedrooms; easier to secure him in one of those, especially if he’s in shift.” 

Sherlock led the way, testing each step before putting his full weight on them. At the top, hallways ran in both directions off the landing. Sherlock headed off to the left, leaving the right to John. 

The door to the first room was swollen and wedged tightly into the frame, but the second room opened at his touch. This was a bathroom, nearly as large as John’s bedroom, with extravagant fittings and trim. Most of the tiles had fallen off the wall, landing in the circular tub, and vines had forced their way past the planks over the windows. John backed out of the room, and continued his search. The remaining bedroom on this hallway was similarly derelict, and the last door opened onto a staircase leading up and down. A few stairs showed, curving up in a tight spiral, but they were littered with plaster and wood; stepping onto the first one, John peered around and saw that most of the rest of the structure had collapsed. Greg wasn’t here, and this side of the house was a dead-end. John hurriedly backtracked, hoping Sherlock had found something. Halfway across the atrium the air began to carry the heavy scent of fresh blood, growing stronger the closer he got to the first door on this side of the house. Sherlock stepped out as he approached, pale and grim, and firmly shut the door behind him.

“Emil’s been stabbed.” he reported with no preamble. “No, don’t go in. It’s...messy. Nothing you can do.” 

“Dammit. I should have punched him when I had the chance. Any sign of Shaw or Bell?”

“No. And I take it you didn’t find Greg.”

“No, but there’s another floor above this one.” He led the way to the end of the hall and pulled open the door, hoping that the house continued it’s symmetrical pattern. It did, and distressed whines from the floor above sent John racing up the crumbling staircase, heedless of his own safety. Sherlock was close behind him when he emerged into a large space, perhaps meant as a library or entertainment room. Greg was here, leashed to the wall with a length of protruding electrical wiring. John ran to him, falling to his knees and fumbling with the knots while Greg cowered into his lap, yipping and yowling piteously.

A miraculously unboarded window showed the scaffolding they’d seen from the fenceline, and Sherlock hurried to look out. “There’s no sign of them outside. They must have gone downstairs just ahead of us.” 

John nodded. They could still catch the people who’d dared to snatch Greg. “Go. Go! I’ve got Greg.” He heard Sherlock race back down the stairs, but kept his eyes on the knot securing Greg to the wall. The wiring was stiff, insulation peeling away from the metal strands within, and John’s fingers were clumsy in his desperation to free the boy. “Easy there, kiddo. I’ve got you. It’s going to be okay.” He kept up a litany of encouragement and reassurance, pulling and picking at the knot until he located the right strand to untangle the mess. Throwing the wiring aside, he clutched Greg tightly in his arms and buried his nose in his thick ruff. Greg, for his part, had stopped howling and gone limp with relief against John’s chest. 

A noise outside brought him back to the moment, and John stood awkwardly, bracing Greg against his body with his good arm. Peering over the scaffolding he saw Sherlock burst out the conservatory door in pursuit of two fleeing figures, and almost missed the muffled ‘whoosh’ from the staircase. Sherlock turned back to the mansion with a look of utter horror on his face, then quickly looked up to see John and Greg standing at the window. John pointed to Greg, then behind him, indicating that he was coming down, but Sherlock shook his head and held up one hand. John could hear him yelling, but the words were indistinct. He shook his head and pointed to his ear, then turned toward the staircase.

Smoke was pouring through the open staircase door. They’d set the house on fire. He spared a moment to appreciate the irony, Emil stabbed and a house burned to hide the crime, even as he ran to the opposite staircase, hoping he’d got it wrong, that the rubble on the stairs below didn’t mean the whole thing had collapsed. Maybe there’d be enough left to get them down. The door nearly separated from the frame when he yanked it open, revealing a gaping hole already filling with smoke. They weren’t getting out this way.

He ran back to the window to see Sherlock shouting down his mobile. When he saw John, he pulled back his arm and punched it forward several times. John took the hint, set Greg down, and pulled his hand into his jacket sleeve. The glass shattered on the first blow, and John climbed out onto the wooden decking of the scaffold. Once he’d pulled Greg through the window and tucked him against his side, he saw that the structure hadn’t been designed with entrance and egress in mind. The only way down was to climb the metal supports. Perhaps alone, he could have managed the descent one-handed, but his good arm was holding Greg tightly to his side and his bad shoulder would never support him. 

They were trapped.

Acrid smoke was starting to drift out the window he’d smashed, and he crouched down to shield them from as much of it as he could. Christ, the fire was spreading fast. There wasn’t going to be time to wait for the fire brigade. John reached up to grab an overhead support, but his shoulder began to spasm as soon as he put any weight on it. If he dropped Greg over the side, could Sherlock catch him? He looked over, but Sherlock wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Probably run off after Bell, figuring John would climb down once he was out of the building. Maybe he could get Greg to shift back. In human form, he could be carried piggy-back, or guided in climbing down himself. 

“Greg. Look, love, I need you to change back, okay? Can you do that for me? We’ll climb down together once you do.” He set Greg down on the decking, running a soothing hand over his fur, but the youngster wasn’t responding. The skin on John’s face prickled in the rush of heat from the broken window, and the smoke took on a horrible orange glow. The flames had reached the upper level. They were out of time. Tucking Greg into his coat, he prepared to jump. Three stories wasn’t going to be fatal, not with were-healing. Injury would mean losing his shift, but Greg would survive. 

A hand appeared on the planks and Sherlock heaved himself onto the deck. “Can you climb with one hand? I’ll take Greg.” He scooped the trembling pup out of John’s jacket and began his descent. John crawled over to the opposite side and dropped his legs over the edge. His left arm was at least useful for balance when he stretched to get to the next cross beam. There was a thunderous crash from inside, and he envisioned ceilings giving way. The metal was uncomfortably warm beneath his hands, and he dropped to the ground as soon as it was reasonably safe. Then he was running, back to the security fence where Sherlock, having descended faster, was waiting with Greg. Away from the flames, he could hear the sirens speeding closer, and a glance back showed the upper planks of the scaffold engulfed in flames. 

“He’s okay.” Sherlock let Greg scramble into John’s arms.

“Thanks to you. If we’d had to wait for the fire brigade...” he croaked, and realized his throat was tight and raw from more than smoke. 

Behind them, flames burst through the roof and sparks rained down on the lawn. Red and blue lights flashed from the front of the house, sirens winding down as emergency vehicles drew up to the scene.

“Come on. We’d better go talk to the officials, and call Gregson. It’s going to be a long night.”


	13. Chapter 13

December was cold, with vicious winds and driving rains. If November had hinted at what was to come, John had missed it in the aftermath of Greg’s kidnapping and Emil’s death. Therapist’s appointments and police interviews, nightmares and outbursts of temper; only easing as the month turned and they began counting down to Christmas. Supper with Sherlock or Mrs Hudson had become a weekly occurrence, a chance for John to let someone else tend to the details while he slipped out to the coffee shop for a couple of desperately needed hours. Tonight, though, John was cooking for all of them. Hot air rushed out of the oven when he opened it and peered in to check the progress of the cottage pie. Greg leaned in for a peek, Fang tucked tightly under one arm. 

“It smells nice. You cook awfully good, John.” 

“I think you mean he cooks awfully WELL.” Sherlock said from the doorway.

“Awfully well.” Greg corrected himself, then turned to Mrs Hudson. “I set the table myself.” 

“You did a fine job, dear. Shall we go finish that video now?” 

Greg looked quickly up at John, who said encouragingly, “Go, watch your program. Sherlock and I will be right out. Five minutes.” 

They left hand in hand, and John waited until Greg had returned and been reassured that they really were going to be joining him in the sitting room, and finally turned his attention to Sherlock.

“He’s doing a lot better. Dr Chen thinks he’ll be ready to go back to school for spring term.” 

“He is a credit to your dedication and understanding. Many would find the situation untenable.” 

John picked up a wineglass and held it out for Sherlock to fill from the wine bottle on the table. “I won’t lie; the first couple weeks were really hard. He had to be in the room when I showered; he slept in my bed every night; when I went to the loo I had to talk to him through the door so he’d know I hadn’t left.” He sipped at his wine, then looked at the glass in surprise. “This is excellent. Bit wasted on my mum’s cottage pie.” 

“Not at all. Wasted, if drunk alone. Perfect for enjoying with friends. Or so I am finding; friends haven’t figured in my life until recently.” His delivery was smooth, or would have been if he hadn’t been speaking to the table. “I am, apparently, difficult to be around.”

“I haven’t found it too hard. Not until recently.” There, that got his attention. 

“I...what have I...John.” Sherlock fell silent when John took the glass from his hand and set it on the table, close beside his own. The air quivered expectantly, but the bowls didn’t quite meet and no sound was made. John’s tongue flicked out and he pursed his lips, darting a glance at Sherlock’s face.

“Lately, though. I’ve realized that I don’t want to be your friend. Or not _just_ your friend.” 

Sherlock’s eyes were very green. His lips were parted, faintly stained with wine. John tipped his head back invitingly, and waited. 

Sherlock took one step forward, reached toward John’s hand, then dropped his arm and said, “What about Greg?”

“Greg adores you. And I know the feeling is mutual. I’m not saying it’ll be easy. But I think it’ll be worth it.” Since Sherlock wouldn’t, John stepped forward and took Sherlock’s hand. Waited. Watched Sherlock wet his own lips, dart a glance around the kitchen, look back to John. 

Waited some more, while his thumb drew little circles over Sherlock’s knuckles. Finally, John whispered, “I’d like to kiss you. May I?”

“Yes. Of course. That would be marvelous.” Sherlock didn’t move. 

John shook his head. “Knew I should’ve done this sitting down. You’ll need to come here, genius.” 

“I am here...oh!” 

John had a bare moment to appreciate Sherlock’s blush and wide, surprised eyes. Then Sherlock had leaned down, tilting his head slightly, and pressed his mouth to John’s. Soft. Sweet. Wine-warm-promise. They broke apart, smiling. 

“Definitely going to be worth it. Come on. Greg’s waiting.” He kept Sherlock’s hand in his, and they walked out of the kitchen to join Greg and Mrs Hudson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. I would be remiss if I didn't say a heartfelt THANK YOU to Longhornletters. She sat beside me (figuratively) so many evenings, patiently helping shape the raw material into the story as it is now. Some of these chapters have had multiple incarnations, and she read through everything, from execrable first draft to the final product. Research? She's been there to help. This is as much her story as it is mine. 
> 
> Hubster, too, has been invaluable both as cheerleader and sounding board. 
> 
> And my kids, who want _Word Wolves_ to be a real thing, tee-shirts and all. 
> 
> Finally, enormous thanks to the readers who have left kudos and comments. I love them like meat loves salt.

**Author's Note:**

> In response to an anon wish at the [Sherlock Wishing Well](http://sherlockwishingwell.tumblr.com/), Bluebell of Baker Street made the most amazing art for this fic. [ See it here](http://bluebellofbakerstreet.tumblr.com/post/135067213655/kestrel337-has-a-charming-fic-in-which-john).


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